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A BACHELOR OF PARIS 


BY > 

JOHN w. Warding 


ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM HOFACKER 




FORMERLY PUBLISHED UNDER THE TITLE 




An Art Failure 


F. TENTIYSON NEELY jt jt jt PUBLISHER 
NEW YORK j* ^ jit jt j* MDCCCXCVn 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Among the Decadents, 

CHAPTER II. 

The Duel in the Snow, 

CHAPTER III. 

Burroughs Casts the Die, 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Pinch of Poverty, 

CHAPTER V. 

A Fatal Fascination, 

CHAPTER VI. 

Le Beau Jules Deserts La Madeleine, 

CHAPTER VII. 


page 

. 7 

. 25 

• 35 

• 47 

. 61 

. 67 


* 


Sister of Mercy, 


93 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER VIII. 

PAOE 

The Joy of Living, 103 

CHAPTER IX. 

Idyl, . 125 

CHAPTER X. 

Face to Face, 137 

CHAPTER XI. 

Crime and Expiation, J51 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Fiat of Destiny, 1 77 

CHAPTER XIII. 

In the Track of the Setting Sun, , , . 193 


AN ART FAILURE 


CHAPTER I 

AMONG THE DECADENTS 

It was a boisterous and nondescript com- 
pany that had gathered in the brasserie 
yclept the Paradis des Alm^es, in the Boule- 
vard de Clichy, Paris, to celebrate New 
Year’s Eve. 

The Latin Quarter had invaded Montmar- 
tre, the Parnassus of the Decadents, which 
has become the rendezvous of moribund Bo- 
hemia. Debutants in and hangers-on to the 
worlds of art and learning — students in their 
first year, ^'old boys,” who had vegetated 
round Saint Genevieve’s Mount for many 
seasons without being one whit nearer the 


7 


8 


AJV ART FAILURE 


attainment of the honors to which they 
were supposed to aspire, artists’ models of 
both sexes, had migrated there and distrib- 
uted themselves among the various places 
that had acquired a 
reputation — at the 
Paradis des Almees; 
at the Chat Noir; at 
Lisbonne’s, the pic- 
turesque Communist, 
who makes capital out 
of the doubtful role he played in the rising 
of ’71, and “citoyens” and “ citoyennes” 
everybody indiscriminately ; at Aristide Bru- 
ant’s, the equally picturesque Zolaesque 
muse of Gutterdom — of the sinister, rou- 
flaquetted Gutterdom of the outer boulevards, 
which seeks its grim apotheosis in the Place 



de la Roquette, in the uncertain gray of nas- 
cent dawn, on the bascule of the guillotine. 

The enticing title of Almehs’ Paradise was 
supposed by the proprietor of the establish- 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 9 



ment to be justified by the fact that the 
waitresses were attired in costumes vaguely 
suggestive of those worn by the dancing girls 
of the East — albeit, except as regards their 
get-up, the Hebes could not, with the great- 
est stretch of the imagination, be said to 
bear any resem- 
blance to the 
commonly con- 
ceived idea of 
almehs, being 
the reverse of 
sylph - like and 
decidedly more 
beery than 
graceful. 

However, the 
place was pat- 
ronized by the 
poets of the 
jeune ecole — disciples and followers at a 
distance (oh ! a very great distance) of PauT 


10 


AN ART FAILURE 


Verlaine, High Priest of Decadentism, and 
Mallarm^ — men who wear long hair, and 
baggy trousers tight at the ankles, declaim 
their own verse, and court the divine afflatus 
in absinthe and bocks. 

When Percy Vanstant, ciceroning Charles 
Burroughs, entered shortly before midnight, 
the brasserie was redolent of black puddings 
and patchouli, soupe a I’oignon and musk, 
saurkraut, violet powder, tobacco smoke, and 
other odors. 

An abnormally stout and coarse-looking 
female, who rejoiced in the nickname of La 
Grosse Jeanne, was scooping in the shekels 
and keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings 
from an elevated counter, while her husband, 
who, stout as she was, could give his spouse 
points in the matter of embonpoint, was go- 
ing among his customers with a napkin over 
his arm, shaking hands here and there, and 
occasionally sitting down to accept a drink. 

Vanstant appeared to be well known, for 


AMONG THE DECADENTS n 


La Grosse Jeanne leered at him amiably, 
and nods of recognition greeted him from 
the demi-mondaines and habitues of the 
place, people of doubtful profession, or no 
profession at all, of which the remainder of 
the company was made up. 

“Do you often come here.^” asked Bur- 
roughs, surprised. 

“Yes,” replied Vanstant. “I make bold 
to say there isn’t a bouge in Paris, however 
vile, with which I am not acquainted.” 

His friend looked inexpressibly shocked. 

Charles Burroughs was American and an 
artist, and although he had been studying in 
Paris for half a decade, knew nothing of the 
shady side of the life of the capital. He had 
steadfastly set himself against the tempta- 
tions which beset him on every hand, and 
to which so many English and American 
youths, left to their own devices in the giddy 
city, succumb, to the ruin alike of their 
health and prospects. 


12 


AN ART FAILURE 


There was no particular merit in this ab- 
stention. He simply had no taste for pleas- 
ures of this kind. He had been brought up 
with Puritanical austerity, and, notwithstand- 
ing his five years of liberty, his ethical views 
and principles had undergone little modifica- 
tion. He knew more about the wooded en- 
virons of the city and the narrow and pictur- 
esque but evil-smelling streets of old Paris, 
that still cluster in the shadow of Notre 
Dame and round the quaint old church of 
Saint- Julien-le-Pauvre, than the guinguettes 
and brasseries de femmes that abound in the 
Latin Quarter. 

Percy Vanstant was an Englishman, and 
while he affected the cultivation of the muses 
in general, and of the muse of poetry in par- 
ticular, was renowned all over the Quarter 
as a bon viveur and the prince of good fel- 
lows. He was, indeed, a noceur in the full- 
est sense of the word. He had plenty of 
money, and spent it freely, denying himself 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 13 


nothing. He had tasted of every pleasure, 
and, as he had said, the mysteries of Paris 
life held no secrets for him. 

Next to being a poet, he prided himself 
upon being a lady-killer. He worshipped at 
the shrine of Venus aggressively, with all the 
ardor of his sensual nature while the fit was 
upon him ; when the reaction came, he shut 
himself up and wrote verse. 

In appearance he was as unaesthetic as 
could well be imagined. Standing six feet 
three in his socks, he was broad in propor- 
tion, and with his clean-shaven face, bullet- 
head, and thick neck, looked a good deal 
more like a prize-fighter than the poet he 
fondly imagined himself to be. It is true a 
small volume of his verse, over the pseudo- 
nym of “ Hyacinthus,” and entitled Blades 
of Grass,” upon which he had expended much 
labor and midnight oil, had been sprung 
upon an unsuspecting public, but only after 
the fourth London publisher to whom he had 


14 AN ART FAILURE 


submitted it had been induced to reconsider 
his unfavorable decision by a douceur in the 
shape of a check for fifty pounds, wherewith 
to cover the expenses of publication. 

Vanstant had happened upon Burroughs 
shortly after the latter’s arrival in Paris, and 
their casual acquaintance had soon ripened 
into warm friendship, though the painter re- 
sembled him in nothing, being slender, 
effeminate, reserved, and sensitive in the ex- 
treme. But the youth’s sympathies had at 
once gone out toward the frank, genial, big- 
limbed, and big-hearted poet, while the latter 
made no secret of his admiration for his 
friend’s talent, and sincerely believed that a 
great future lay before him. 

He appeared to be highly amused at the 
artist’s horrified surprise. 

“ Well,” observed Burroughs, after a pause. 

I can’t say I admire your taste !” 

The poet laughed. “ My poor Burroughs,” 
he said, you are singularly unsophisticated 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 15 



for a fellow of your age and profession. It 
behooves every man to know what is going 
on around, above, and beneath him, as far as 
lies in his power. It behooves him espe- 
cially to study the seamy side of things, if he 


would gather an intelligent appreciation of 
our complex existence. Nothing is more 
true than the old aphorism that one-half of 
the world has no notion as to how the other 
half lives.’' 


i6 


AJV' ART FAILURE 


** I don’t agree with you,” retorted the ar- 
tist warmly. “ I don’t see why, because a 
man is conscious of the fact that a great deal 
of misery and vice exist in the world, he is 
therefore bound to live in a slum and wallow 
in the mire.” 

Neither is he,” admitted the English- 
man. 

“ But,” continued the former, “ if you walk 
in the mud, you can’t avoid soiling your 
boots, you know. Now I think it worthier 
for a man who has no ideal to create one for 
himself, place it upon a lofty pinnacle, and 
try to raise himself to its level.” 

“ It all depends upon the ideal,” said Van- 
stant. 

Further conversation was, however, inter- 
rupted by a commotion in the brasserie. 

By Jove !” exclaimed the poet, jumping 
up and glancing at the clock, '‘it is mid- 
night. Now you will see some fun. But 
first, a happy new year to you, old man.” 


AMONG THE DECADENTS i? 


The artist grasped his friend’s hand 
warmly, but had scarcely time to return the 
compliment ere the poet broke away, un- 
pinned a splendid camellia that ornamented 
his buttonhole, strode down the brasserie, 
and solemnly bending over the counter, pre- 
sented the flower to La Grosse Jeanne, at 
the same time saluting her with a sounding 
kiss on both cheeks. 

Simultaneously the company rose to their 
feet. Every man kissed every woman he 
knew, and did not know, who happened to 
be near him, and for the next five minutes 
the osculatory smacking dominated the 
laughter, compliments, clinking of glasses, 
and popping of corks. 

Half amused, half disgusted. Burroughs 
watched the fun, but made no attempt to 
participate in it. His aloofness was noticed 
by a pretty young woman, who went up to 
him and turned her cheek to him to be 
kissed. The artist blushed scarlet, but 


i8 


AN ART FAILURE 


made no movement to respond to the invi- 
tation. 

He is a bear!” cried Nini la Blonde, the 
notorious model of the Gervex atelier. 

‘‘No,” shouted the poet, who had taken in 
the situation at a glance from the other end 
of the room. “ He’s bashful.” 

There was a roar of laughter from the 
crowd who had turned to look at the embar- 
rassed artist, and the next minute he was 
surrounded, dragged to his feet, and kissed 
and squeezed till he was breathless. 

Attention was suddenly distracted from 
the artist, however, by a diversion of a very 
different nature. Shouts and screams were 
heard, followed by the smashing of glass and 
the overturning of a table, and two men were 
seen struggling together on the floor. A 
rush was made, but the burly patron, thrust- 
ing his customers aside with scant ceremony, 
clutched the combatants by the collar, flung 
one to the left and the other to the right of 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 19 


him, and swore that if there was any further 
disturbance he would wring their necks and 
throw them into the street. 

“That’s enough of that, Le Beau Jules,” 
he said; “and as for you, Antonio, you’re 
always quarrelling with somebody. Allons ! 
Sit down and behave yourselves, or it will be 
the worse for you. C’est epatant ! ” he added 
grumblingly, shrugging his shoulders, ‘the 
mar joys must select this particular moment 
to settle their differences, when everybody 
else is amusing himself. If they want to 
fight, let them go elsewhere.” 

Antonio’s eyes blazed fury, but he sat 
down and stanched the blood that streamed 
down his face from a cut on his forehead, 
while Le Beau Jules, an individual with 
abundant, chrysanthemum-like hair, smoothed 
his ruffled locks, and effaced himself sullenly 
at another table; and gayety once more 
reigned in the establishment. 

Several tables were joined into one large 


20 


AJV ART FAILURE 


banquet-board, around which the choice 
spirits of the company assembled. Bur- 
roughs, who had been almost overcome by the 
hugging he had received and the odor of pat- 
chouli and peau d’Espagne, was recovering 
his composure and brushing the face-powder 
off his coat, when Vanstant dragged him, all 
reluctant, to a seat among the company. 

I drink to the Latin Quarter, the mother 
of Bohemia,” said the fat patron at the head 
of the table, standing and raising his glass 
with elephantine grace. 

The Latin Quarter ! Bohemia ! The 
haunt of Henri Murger, of Mimi Pinson, of 
Schaunard and Musette, and their joyous, 
generous companions.? Why, it no longer 
exists !” exclaimed Vanstant eloquently, 
springing to his feet and bringing his fist 
down on the table with such force that every- 
thing on it danced and rattled. ‘‘Modern 
hygiene has marked it for its own, and the 
pick and shovel now resound in streets which 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 21 


erstwhile re-echoed nightly with the uproari- 
ous mirth of students, long since dead, or 



become staid scientists, politicians, artists, 
litterateurs— pillars of the State ; or engulfed 
with their ambitions in the mighty ruck of 


22 


AN ART FAILURE 


mediocrity, respectable and otherwise. Im- 
posing six-story buildings, %ith gas and 
water on every floor,’ now replace landmarks 
once deemed sacred, inviolable. 

“ Vanished the frail but sympathetic gri- 
sette for evermore. True, the Bal Bullier, of 
joyous memory, yet struggles feebly to main- 
tain its whilom reputation, and that of the 
Quarter generally, and an increasingly sober 
youth endeavors, in a half-hearted fashion, 
to perpetuate the traditions of the classic 
Boul’ Mich’ by monbmes and other demon- 
strations, under the eye of an unsentimental 
police. But these are only the spasmodic 
flickerings of the candle-wick in the socket. 
Bohemianism is expiring, nay, has expired, 
snuffed out, as it were, by fin-de-si^cleism. 
And a transformed Quarter shall know it no 
more.” 

‘‘The poet is right,” said Duransaur, th^ 
long-haired Decadent, when the applause 
which had succeeded Vanstant’s outburst 


AMONG THE DECADENTS 23 


had subsided. The Latin Quarter is 
played out. The mountain has come to Ma- 
homet : Art, Poetry, Bohemia — or what is 
left of it — have migrated to Montmartre, the 
home of the New Idea. Pedagogues, and 
sawbones, and the sucking vultures of the 
law will continue to people the Boul’ Mich’, 
but the cultivation of the Beautiful will de- 
velop round the Mount of Mars. 

Still, let us drink to the Latin Quarter, 
for if it lacks its grisettes, has it not its 
Sarah Whites, its Boules de I.oto, its Marie 
Pimb^res, its Petites Irmas, and La Made- 
leine, perfection of models, nature’s highest 
expression of beauty embodied in the female 
form divine, without whose presence this 
feast of reason would be bereft of its chief 
charm 

‘‘Yes,” added Antonio, sneeringly, “and 
nature’s highest expression of canaillerie in 
the shape of La Madeleine’s type, that idiot 
with his hair a la Paderewski, who is mak- 


24 


AN ART FAILURE 


ing eyes at my Irma and treading on her 
toes.” 

Le Beau Jules sprang to his feet, and the 
battle was renewed over the table, with bot- 
tles and glasses for weapons, until Vanstant, 
throwing his arms round Le Beau Jules, 
forced him into a chair, and held him there 
as in a vice, while the patron, seizing Anto- 
nio, whisked him under his arm and pitched 
him neck and crop into the street, with the 
intimation that he would get every bone in 
his body broken if he showed his face again. 



CHAPTER II 


THE DUEL IN THE SNOW 

In the meantime La Petite Irma and La 
Madeleine had got from words to blows, and 
had to be separated, too. The latter, with her 
abundant brown locks unloosened and flow- 
ing over her shoulders, and her torn bodice 
disclosing her ample breasts, looked the liv- 
ing picture of an enraged Amazon. La Pe- 
tite Irma, with her ruffled flaxen hair over 
her eyes and the imprint of La Madeleine’s 
nails on her doll-like face, presented an al- 
together sorry spectacle. 

The whole place was in an uproar. It was 
realized that the jollification could not con- 
tinue, and that the dispute would not end 
there. Antonio was notoriously the most 
quarrelsome and vindictive of all the Italian 


25 


26 


A AT ART FAILURE 


models in the Quarter. He would certainly 
have his revenge, if he waited outside the 
brasserie all night. 

Le Beau Jules’ blood, on the other hand, 
was also up. He swore that no rascally Ital- 
ian should insult him with impunity. He 
refused to be quieted either by coaxing or 
threats, or to listen to the expostulations of 
La Madeleine, and insisted upon going out 
to chastise his enemy. So most of the com- 
pany also turned out to witness the fun, to 
the profound disgust of the patron. 

“ Come on,” said Vanstant, grasping Bur- 
roughs by the arm, “ there’s going to be a 
duel.” 

“ A duel !” exclaimed the artist, aghast. 

“ Certainly, why not ? Everybody will see 
fair play, and they are quite as justified in 
slitting each other’s wizen if they hanker to 
do so as deputies, journalists, or officers who 
exchange cards overnight and meet on the 
field of honor, as they call it, the next 


THE DUEL IN THE SNOW 2; 


morning. The only difference is that this 
encounter won’t be heralded by a flourish of 
trumpets in the press.” 

But I’m not going to stand by and see 
two fellow- creatures murder each other,” 
said Burroughs firmly. “The police had 
better be informed.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” urged the poet. 
“ They are not likely to do each other much 
harm.” 

It had been snowing heavily, and the 
thick, white flakes were still falling when 
the party issued on to the boulevard. 

Antonio was on the lookout, and as soon 
as he caught sight of Le Beau Jules rushed 
at him, knife in hand ; but Vanstant was too 
quick for him, and gripped his arm with 
such force that the Italian writhed with pain 
and dropped the weapon. 

“ None of that,” said the poet sternly. 
“ You must fight fair or not at all.” 

Antonio’s friends, male and female, crowd- 


28 


AN ART FAILURE 



ed round him, and there was a few moments’ 
excited palaver, after which two of them 


went over to Le Beau Jules’ group, and pro- 
posed an adjournment to the Rue des Saules, 


THE DUEL IN THE SNOW 29 


on the northern slope of Montmartre hill. 
This was agreed to, and it was decided to 
reach the rendezvous by different routes, so 
as not to excite the attention of any inquisi- 
tive policemen they might meet. 

Save for the murky glare of the occasional 
street-lamps, not a light was visible on 
Montmartre, all the inhabitants having long 
since retired to rest. Even that resort of 
voyouism, the Moulin de la Galette ball, was 
silent, for two o’clock, closing time, had 
struck nearly an hour before. 

The Rue Lepic, up which Le Beau Jules 
and his party ascended, was as silent as the 
grave, and they reached the top of the Rue 
des Saules without encountering a soul. 

It was a favorable place for the meeting, 
there being no houses in the immediate vi- 
cinity; for the Rue des Saules is bounded 
by garden walls at the top, and sheers down 
the thinly inhabited slope toward the subur- 
ban town of Saint Denis. 


30 


AN ART FAILURE 


Arriving there, Burroughs waited to see 
no more. He sidled quietly away, and 
when he had turned the corner out of sight, 
bolted back down the hill as fast as his legs 
would carry him. He emerged breathless 
on to the Boulevard de Clichy in search of 
the police, but had not gone far when he saw 
La Madeleine gesticulating with two hooded 
and heavily booted guardians of the peace. 

Then he saw one of the latter start on the 
run toward a neighbouring police-station, 
and rightly concluding that there was now 
no cause for interference, proceeded on his 
long tramp home to the Latin Quarter on 
the other side of the river. 

Le Beau Jules’ group was speedily joined 
by the Antonio party, a ring was formed 
without further ceremony, and the two men 
having divested themselves of their coats, 
Le Beau Jules was furnished with a knife 
resembling as near as possible that of his 
rival, and they were let loose at each other. 


I 




i 


THEY CIRCLED ROUND AND ROUND IN THE SNOW. 






THE DUEL IN THE SNOW 33 


They circled round and round in the snow, 
Antonio, cat-like, stealthily watching for an 
opportunity to break his opponent’s guard 
and drive his weapon home; Le Beau Jules, 
now thoroughly afraid of the Italian, eyeing 
his movements with the perspiration pearling 
on his brow and his heart thumping against 
his ribs. Twice the Italian feinted, and 
twice Le Beau Jules recoiled. Then sud- 
denly darting in, the former with his left 
knocked up his opponent’s right arm, and 
lunged at his heart. 

It would have been all over with the 
Frenchman had not Antonio, in his precipi- 
tation, slipped. As it was, the blade pierced 
Le Beau Jules’ thigh, just above the knee. 
With a shriek of pain he kicked the half- 
prostrate Italian savagely in the face, and be- 
fore he could struggle to his feet plunged his 
knife into his side. 

It had all passed so quickly that none of 
the crowd could make a movement to inter- 


3 


34 


AJV ART FAILURE 


fere on behalf of the man who was down. 
Nor could any one now go to his assistance, 
for at this moment a squad of police appeared 
upon the scene, and leaving Antonio extend- 
ed on the snow, men and women dashed pell- 
mell down the hill, through the blinding 
storm, heedless of the shots from the revolv- 
ers of their pursuers. 



CHAPTER III 

BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 

When after five minutes’ furious ringing 
at the door of a dingy old house in the Rue 
Serpente, off the Boulevard Saint Michel, 
the concierge pulled the cordon and let him 
in, Burroughs groped his way up the dark, 
tile-stepped staircase, successfully rounded 
its numerous and abrupt angles, and entered 
a room at the end of a passage on the top 
floor. 

He lit a candle, and his attention was im- 
mediately attracted to 
a letter that had been 
thrust under the door. 

It bore the United 
States stamp and postmark and his father’s 
well-known handwriting. With great agita- 



35 


36 


AN ART FAILURE 


tion he tore open the envelope and eagerly 
perused the letter, which was as follows : 

“The Briars, Staten Island, N. Y., 
“December I2th, i88- 
“My dear Charles: 

“Your letter occasioned me considerable 
astonishment, and the greatest pain to your 
mother and sister. When, in lieu of the al- 
lowance I have been misguided enough to 
remit you every month I sent you a steam- 
ship ticket and ordered you to return, I ex- 
pected you to obey me and take the next 
boat. 

“ You have been wasting your time daub- 
ing canvases in Paris long enough. In a mo- 
ment of weakness, of which I now repent me, 
I allowed you to go, in the hope that while a 
knowledge of European countries and of the 
French language would be useful to you in 
my business, experience would convince' you 
of the folly of pursuing a profession in which 
you would be a great deal more likely to 
starve than to acquire a reputation. 

“ I intend that in future you shall devote 


BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 37 


yourself to the business in which, I am proud 
to say, I have amassed a competence. 

You hardly need to be told that I brook 
no disobedience, and I warn you that should 
you again fail to comply with my orders, I 
will cast you off without compunction and 
without appeal. 

Trusting you will have better sense than 
to place me under such a painful necessity, 

I am your affectionate father, 

“John P. Burroughs. 

“P.S. — Your ticket has been made good 
for the ^Bourgogne,’ which leaves Havre 
on Saturday, January I2th.” 

So the crisis he had long been dreading 
had come at last. He was face to face with 
the alternative of breaking with his art, the 
absorbing passion of his life, and returning 
to the counting-house drudgery he abhorred, 
or of being thrown upon his own resources, 
cut off for ever from all that he held most 
dear in his native land. He knew only too 
well that there was no appeal from the pa- 


38 


A^r ART FAILURE 


rental sentence. The old merchant’s word 
was law, his decision Mede-and-Persian. He 
would do as he had said, and cast his only 
son ruthlessly from him should he dare to 
disobey, blot him out of his existence, and 
all the pleading of his gentle, timid mother 
and his sister, who adored him, would avail 
nothing. 

He straddled a chair arid gloomily read the 
letter again. 

The uncertain light of the candle showed 
that the artist’s abode contained, and, indeed, 
required, but little furniture. So small was 
it, in fact, that it was encumbered by the 
narrow iron bedstead, two chairs, a table, a 
trunk, and a couple of easels which, with a 
hanging bookcase and a number of sketches 
and studies on the wall, constituted the whole 
of his belongings. 

Yet Burroughs was attached to the place 
and everything it contained. He had estab- 
lished himself here soon after his arrival in 


BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 39 


Paris, and here for five long years he had 
labored courageously at his art and built 



his Spanish castles. Now the latter, base- 
less fabrics of his day-dreaming, were to be 


40 


AN ART FAILURE 


rudely dissolved at his father’s bidding, 
while he, their architect, must awake to find 
himself shackled to an office-stool, between 
Debit and Credit, and his genius subordi- 
nated to the exigences of a commonplace 
commercial existence ! 

He got little sleep that night, or rather 
morning, and before noon had roused up 
Vanstant at his sumptuous quarters at the 
Hotel de I’Aigle d’Or, in the quietest sec- 
tion of the Rue de Lille, near the old Cour 
des Comptes, whose picturesque ruins still 
overlook the river to remind Parisians of the 
dreadful days of civil strife through which 
they passed after the war of 1870. 

Vanstant related to him the issue of the 
previous night’s conflict. “ By Jove ! we had 
to run for it,” he said. “ La Petite Irma was 
the only one in the crowd who came near 
being captured. A big policeman grasped 
her by the shoulder, but I tripped him up, 
and, snatching the little chit, who was trem- 


BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 41 


bling like a leaf, under my arm, made my 
way round by the Montmartre Cemetery on 
to the Boulevard de Clichy again.” 

The poet opened his eyes with blank as- 
tonishment when Burroughs informed him 
of the real reason for his visit. 

Drop the palette and brush for the 
office-stool and ledger.^ Impossible! Ab- 
surd!” he gasped. You are trying to play 
off a joke on me,” eyeing Burroughs sus- 
piciously. 

I never play jokes upon anybody,” re- 
torted the artist shortly. 

Well, you don’t,” admitted Vanstant, 
with bland candor. “ I don’t believe you 
could perpetrate a joke to save your life. 
But what you say is too ridiculous. You 
couldn’t do it.” 

I know I couldn’t,” replied the painter 
gloomily, but everybody isn’t the son of a 
lord, with a fortune in his own right and an- 
other in prospective.” 


42 


AN ART FAILURE 


The poet looked aggrieved. Well, I 
never imposed the handle to my name upon 
any fellow,” he said, in an injured tone. 

And as for my money, it isn’t my fault that 
I don’t have to earn it — I often wonder how 
the devil I should get on if I did,” he added, 
with his old genial grin. 

Burroughs reddened to the roots of his 
hair. “ Pardon me, old boy,” he said, hold- 
ing out his hand. I’m an ass, and you’re 
the best fellow in the world. You would 
have succeeded in anything ” 

“ Except poetry,” broke in the English- 
man dubiously. 

Burroughs handed him the fateful letter. 
Vanstant read it and looked grave. “ Per- 
haps the governor’s only putting the screw 
on. Perhaps he’s open to persuasion,” he 
suggested. 

“ No,” said his friend, “ he isn’t. He’s as 
unmovable as the Pyramids.” 

“ Then what are you going to do 


BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 43 


“ Do ? Why, stay in Paris, of course, and 
follow the lines laid down for me by des- 
tiny !” replied Burroughs exaltedly. 

“ Perhaps you act advisedly,” assented 
Vanstant. “ It would be little short of sac- 
rilege to nip such talent as yours in the bud. 
Besides, blood is thicker than water, and the 
old man is sure to be mollified when he finds 
your pictures being talked about in the pa- 
pers. In the mean time, should fortune prove 
fickle — and accidents will happen in the best- 
regulated families, you know — remember, 
old boy, I am here and at your service.” 

A fortnight later John P. Burroughs, 
wholesale grain merchant, seated at the 
breakfast-table, received a letter from his 
son in Paris. It teemed with filial respect, 
but announced the writer’s determination to 
pursue his artistic career in Paris, whatever 
the consequences might be. 

The merchant’s wife and daughter, anx- 


44 


AJV ART FAILURE 


iously scanning his hard-set face, saw with 
dismay that it waxed sterner and sterner as 



he perused the missive. When he came to 
the end he refolded the sheet deliberately, 
put it in his pocket, rose from his untouched 


BURROUGHS CASTS THE DIE 45 


repast, and in a harsh voice ordered the 
women never to mention in his presence 
again the name of him who had been his son. 

An hour later he was closeted with his 
lawyer in New York. When the interview 
was over he came out looking pale, but 
sterner than ever: he had disinherited the 
boy upon whom he had founded all the 
hopes of his declining years. 



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CHAPTER IV 

THE PINCH OF POVERTY 

The winter of i88- was a severe one, but 
the elements at their worst had not been 
unkinder to shivering humanity than fickle 
fortune to Charles Burroughs. 

The sum allowed him every month by his 
father was small, and barely sufficient for his 
needs ; still, he had been able to count upon 
it. When funds were low he had run into 
debt with a light heart, knowing that at the 
appointed time he would have the where- 
withal to settle the bills he was accustomed 
to run up with the keeper of the restaurant 
he patronised, and with the other purveyors 
of the common necessaries of existence. 

When the parental allowance was cut off, 
and he found himself thrown upon his own 


47 


48 


JJ\r ART FAILURE 


resources, he speedily realized that one 
thing transcended even the considerations of 
art itself, and that was the necessity of pro- 
curing his daily bread, not to mention that 
of providing himself with fuel and of paying 
the rent of his modest lodging. 

This did not trouble him greatly at first. 
He argued that the sale of a few pictures 
would provide him with funds for a long 
time to come. He had never previously 
thought of selling them, but he was con- 
scious that his work was of a really high 
order, and had no doubt but that they would 
find a ready market. 

He did not, however, rely upon these to 
establish his reputation. They would be 
merely the avant coureurs, as it were, to pre- 
pare the way for the great work — a Bea- 
trice” — upon which he had been engaged for 
months, and which he destined for the next 
Salon. He had guarded it jealously, even 
from Vanstant, in an empty mansarde, ceded 


THE PINCH OF POVERTY 49 


by the concierge for a consideration. But 
the time had come when he must lay the 
foundation of his fame. The picture must 
be finished and go forth to be a revelation to 
the world of art, a promise of glorious things 
to come. 

And then his fancy conjured up roseate 
visions of wondering crowds round his mas- 
terpieces, a war of critics, the crown of Fame. 
He already saw the coveted notice, “ Hors 
Concours,” shining in gilt letters on the 
frames, already heard the reverent appella- 
tion, “ Cher maitre,” addressed to him by his 
admirers. 

Poor Burroughs ! What, in his ignorance 
of life, could he know of the ways of the 
Great Art Dealer ; of his influence upon the 
taste of the moneyed public, of his despotic 
power over the painter.^ How could he sus- 
pect that it is more profitable to juggle with 
the living names of the dead past, to boom 
the works, good, bad, and indifferent, of the 


4 


50 


AN ART FAILURE 


Favored Few of the . Hour, than to recognize 
the gems of the unknown genius ? 

What could he know of the power of flat- 
tery upon the writer on art, misnamed critic ; 
of his judicious servility? 

He had never been initiated into the mys- 
teries of the pot-boiler manufactory, where, 
under cover of a Name, pretty daubs are pro- 
duced wholesale for a trifling daily wage, to 
be exchanged through the proper channels 
for checks of three or four figures. 

In a word, he knew no more about the 
prostitution of the art he worshipped than a 
baby. And when experience opened his 
eyes to a few of these things, the wisdom 
was not bliss. 

He soon found that it was easier to paint 
pictures than to sell them; that works of 
greater merit than his own glutted the com- 
mon market, were accounted of no value, 
and went a-begging. 

But he did not despair. He had absolute 


THE PINCH OF POVERTY 51 


faith in the future and in his magnum opus. 
The latter would draw attention to him. 
Then it would be all plain sailing ; for, once 
known, he would not be compelled to seek, 
but would be sought, and the most terrible 
curse of struggling talent — indeed, of all 
struggling humanity, talented and other- 
wise — an empty purse, would cease to worry 
him and shackle his efforts. 

Meanwhile, however, his position was des- 
perate. He was utterly destitute. For the 
first time in his life he suffered hunger with- 
out being able to appease it ; knew what it 
was to feel the cold without being able to 
protect himself from it except by staying in 
bed. It was horrible ! 

At the outset he had continued to take his 
meals at his accustomed restaurant, prolong- 
ing his credit under the conviction that one 
of his pictures would soon be sold and ena- 
ble him to settle everything. But as the 
time passed and the cordiality of mine host 


52 


AJV ART FAILURE 


visibly waned, he grew ashamed, and finally 
dared not venture near the place. Then he 
fell back on bread and cheese, then on bread 
without cheese. 

To add to his trouble Mme. Durand, the 
concierge’s wife, was obliged to withdraw 

without the money when 

she knocked at the door 
with the receipt for the 
rent. It had previously 
always been forthcoming 
regularly, accompanied 
by a liberal tip for her- 
self. When, therefore, 
the woman cut short his 
excuses with the remark 
that it was of no consequence and that there 
was no hurry, he could have embraced her, 
for he had awaited her coming with confu- 
sion and terror. 

He had been the round of all the well- 
known art dealers, and one day, to his great 



THE PINCH OF POVERTY 53 


joy, chanced upon one who examined his 
work nonchalantly, and condescended to place 
it among the numerous other canvases which 
decorated the interior of the establishment. 
Eagerly expectant, he called at the place as 
often as he decently could, for a time, till he 
was told that if he cared to leave it, he would 
be duly notified when, if ever, the picture 
was disposed of. 

At first, his hunger had tortured him hor- 
ribly. Gradually, however, the craving di- 
minished, and he found the cold much more 
terrible to bear. His trunk, the bookshelf, 
and the chair, had one by one been broken 
up and used for fuel. Then he worked at 
his Beatrice” with the bedclothes wrapped 
around him, until his hands were so be- 
numbed that he could not hold the brush. 

All his books were disposed of to a bro- 
canteur for a trifle, with which he was ena- 
bled, by careful management, to keep body 
and soul together for several days, and re- 


54 


AJV ART FAILURE 


plenish his store of pigments. Then gradu- 
ally his meagre stock of clothes and every- 
thing else salable, including some of his be- 
loved pictures, found their way to the same 
resort of the needy. 

Had Vanstant been in Paris, all would 
have been different ; he would speedily have 
remarked the artist’s distress, and would 
have found means to assist him without 
wounding his susceptibilities. But he was 
not. .A telegram announcing the critical ill- 
ness of his father. Lord Studley, had sum- 
moned the poet to England early in the year, 
and no tidings had been received of him 
since. Burroughs would rather have died 
than make known his position to his friend, 
or to the masters at whose feet he had sat at 
Julien’s and at the Ecole des Beaux- Arts, 
who esteemed him highly, and would gladly 
have helped him with their influence. 

Such was his sensitiveness on this point 
that having one day suddenly caught sight of 


44 



WRAPPED AROUND HIM 




THE PINCH OF POVERTY 57 


himself in a^glass while passing along the 
Boulevard Saint Michel, he was so startled at 
his emaciated appearance, that he slunk away 
from the crowded thoroughfare, fearful of 
meeting somebody who knew him. 

None but those who are able to speak from 
experience can form any idea as to the 
amount of privation the human frame will 
endure. But this endurance, like every- 
thing else, save space and time, has its lim- 
its. Burroughs became feverish and ner- 
vous as he grew weaker. He would start at 
the least sound. On more than one occasion 
he had caught himself laughing hysterically, 
he knew not why. More than once, too, he 
had fainted from exhaustion while working 
at his picture, and his hand began to lose 
its cunning. 

Sometimes, in a fit of gloomy despondency, 
he asked himself whether, after all, the game 
was worth the candle ; whether it would not 
be better to capitulate and beg his father’s 


58 


AN ART FAILURE 


forgiveness, which would, on such terms, he 
doubted not, be accorded. 

But, what ! Give up so soon, and on the 
very eve of success } Never ! Others whose 
names were writ large on the scroll of hon- 
or, for whom a niche had been reserved in 
the Temple of Fame, had pursued the same 
dreary up-hill road. And why not he } And 
if he failed, if he fell by the wayside ? Well, 
he would have sacrificed himself in the cause 
of his beloved art, in the struggle of Soul 
against Matter, as many had done before 
him ; and he could conceive of no nobler 
death. 

But another and unexpected factor entered 
into the struggle : /le became afraid of his 
Beatrice as she developed toward completion! 
The trouble began with her eyes. They 
worried him, and he would fain have changed 
them, but one day, when he essayed to do so, 
his own became blurred, a thousand orbs 
glared out at him from all parts of the canvas, 


THE PINCH OF POVERTY 59 


and with a shriek of terror he fled out of the 
mansarde into his own room, where the sight 



of the few familiar objects that remained to 
him brought him to his senses- for a time. 

Thereafter, however, the heavenly bride of 
Dante filled him with dread, and it was only 
by a great effort that he could bring himself 
to work at the picture in his calmer moments. 


6o 


AJV ART FAILURE 


She haunted him even in his sleep, as- 
sumed fearful and swiftly changing shapes, 
and pursued him over roaring torrents and 
down bottomless abysms, until he awoke in a 
cold perspiration, crushed, broken. 



CHAPTER V 


A FATAL FASCINATION 

As though to compensate for its extreme 
rigor, winter came early to an end. The 
month of March was singularly balmy. It 
was the season when the artist and the poet 
were wont, as the latter expressed it in his 
“ Blades of Grass,’’ to seek inspiration 

Of nature, scarce renascent, clad in all 
The pristine loveliness of early Spring, 

When Naiads, issuing from the ice-bound brooks 
And waterfalls, scatter the fecund earth 
With fragrant flowers, and all the feathered tribe. 
Venturing from their nests, trill joyously 
Their morning carol to the god of day. 

.Yet the return of spring, while it brought 
relief from the cold that had tried and handi- 
capped him so seriously, was not hailed with 

6i 


62 


AN ART FAILURE 


unmixed satisfaction by Burroughs. He had 
wasted to a mere shadow, and was weak in 
the extreme. The attacks of faintness had 
become more and more frequent, and alter- 
nated with delirium. In his lucid moments 
he fretted lest the picture should not be ready 
by the time appointed for submitting in- 
tended exhibits to the judgment of the Salon 
jury. Then he would work at it till his over- 
wrought strength compelled him to desist. 
At other times the fear of Beatrice’s eyes 
gat hold upon him and rendered him so 
nervous that he was afraid to go near the 
mansarde. 

On these occasions he would pace up and 
down his little room and reason with himself, 
exerting all his resolution and strength of 
mind to overcome the trouble ; or he would 
go out and walk about till the fresh air and 
the va et vient of the people in the streets 
restored his confidence. 

At last the climax came. He had been 


A FATAL FASCINATION 63 


more than usually feverish all day, and a prey 
to the deepest despondency. Even the mer- 
ciful oblivion that sleep sometimes brought 
was denied him. He lay on the bed op- 
pressed by the solitude and haunted by name- 
less terrors, till he could bear it no longer, 
and, toward three o’clock in the morning, 
rose and fled into the street. 

The night was as dark and cheerless as his 
own heart, but the cool air fanned his fever- 
ish brow deliciously, and he wandered on, 
aimlessly, through the Rue de I’Eperon and 
the Rue des Grands Augustins, and along 
the quays till he found himself on the Sol- 
ferino Bridge, which spans the river between 
the Tuileries Garden and the ruins of the 
Cour des Comptes. 

Save for the scarcely audible swirling of 
the waters against the piles of the bridge, not 
a sound disturbed the silence of the great, 
slumbering city. The artist leaned upon the 
balustrade and gazed vacantly upon the river 


64 


AN ART FAILURE 


flowing onward, ever onward, to the sea, be- 
tween the double row of dim gas-lamps that 
extended like strings of amber beads, until 
they converged and mingled murkily in the 
distant obscurity. 

The reflections of the lamps near by 
danced upon the bosom of the restless river 
like things of life. Mechanically his eyes 
followed their movements until they lighted 
upon one reflection, in the deeper shadow of 
the Tuileries bank, that did not dance. He 
found himself wondering why this particular 
light gleamed there placidly while all its fel- 
lows flickered responsive to the throbbing of 
the flood. The thing irritated him, and he 
sought to dismiss it from his thoughts ; but 
ever as he turned away his eyes, they were 
irresistibly drawn to it again. 

He was fascinated, hypnotized by it, until 
at last it mastered his feeble will-power and 
held him there gazing fixedly at it. 

Then the light began to emerge from 


A FATAL FASCINATION 65 


the water. It took shape. It became a 
being, a woman — O God 1 the creature 
of his own imagining, the Beatrice of his 
picture ! 

Motionless she stood there, her draperies 
merging in the blot of burnished gold be- 
yond which his concentrated gaze could not 
wander, speaking to him with those won- 
drous eyes of hers, pleadingly, persuasively, 
with an eloquence more convincing, more 
soothing than the glibbest flow of soft, artic- 
ulate speech : 

“ O weary heart, wherefore tarry ye sor- 
rowing there? Wherefore abide ye friend- 
less in the great, indifferent world of men ? 
What recks it of thy sensitiveness, thy suf- 
fering, thy art? What to thee is the chim- 
era Fame, that ever fleeing, fleest thee? 
Here is glory, the only, the real ; here is rest, 
the real, the only. Come to me, O my love, 
come to thy Creation, thy Creature, thy 
Thing! . . . Come! . . , Come! . . 

5 


66 


AJV ART FAILURE 


Delirious, the artist stretched out his 
hands toward the vision. 

I come ! I come!” he murmured; and 
with his eyes ecstatically fixed upon those 
of his Beatrice he struggled on to the balus- 
trade and swooned forward. 



CHAPTER Vl 


LE BEAU JULES DESERTS LA MADELEINE 

Le Beau Jules had gone off with La 
Petite Irma! 

Everybody in the Latin Quarter, La Ma- 
deleine excepted, had been aware of the rela- 
tions existing between them, and had been 
looking forward with lively curiosity to the 
denouement when Antonio, who had escaped 
being killed by the skin of his teeth, should 
come out of the hospital. Her suspicions, it 
is true, had been aroused on the night of the 
duel, and frequent and furious were the jeal- 
ous quarrels she had picked with her lover in 
consequence. But Le Beau Jules had pro- 
tested with an air of such virtuous indigna- 
tion, and had acted withal so circumspectly 
that her doubts had been gradually allayed. 

67 


68 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


The note she had found lying on the table 
on her return from the atelier, briefly appris- 
ing her that he had gone away and that it 
was useless to seek for him, had come as a 
thunderbolt to her. She had devoted the 
best years of her life to him for this — to be 
abandoned for the one woman of all others 
she detested! Oh, the traitor! Oh, the 
coward ! 

Absolutely insane with rage and hatred, 
she had wandered all over the Quarter with 
a bottle of vitriol in her pocket, in the vain 
hope of finding them and taking a terrible 
revenge, until all the brasseries and other 
resorts were closed, and, baffled and ex- 
hausted, she found herself at the corner of 
the Boulevard Saint Germain and the Rue 
du Bac. 

Then she began to reflect upon her posi- 
tion. 

Life held no attraction for her. It never 
had much. Abandoned by her unknown 


LA MADELEINE 


69 


mother a few weeks after her birth, she had 
been brought up at the Enfants Trouves, 
and on leaving that institution had been 
drafted into the service of a tradesman’s 
family. But her independent, wilful nature 
could ill brook the drudgery of the kitchen, 
and she soon left this for the ill-paid and 
hardly more satisfactory metier of seamstress. 

It was a fellow-slave of the needle who 
first introduced her to life in the Latin 
Quarter. While seated in a cafe one day a 
sculptor remarked her and admired her bud- 
ding charms ; but his admiration was purely 
professional : she seemed to him to embody 
an ideal he had vainly sought for. Without 
ceremony he crossed over to the girls and 
offered La Madeleine five francs a seance 
if she would pose to him. La Madeleine 
promptly and indignantly refused. Not a 
little surprised at this rebuff the painter 
increased his offer, with the same result. 
Then he knew she was not what he had 


70 


AN ART FAILURE 


taken her to be, and raising his hat and apol- 
ogizing, he retreated to his table. 

From the appearance of the girls and the 
place in which he had found them, he had 
never dreamed but that they were “ vendors 
of smiles,” or models, or both. The dis- 
appointment only rendered him the more 
eager. He conceived the idea that the real- 
ization of his work depended upon securing 
La Madeleine for his model, and he deter- 
mined to accomplish by foul means what h^ 
could not do by fair. Night after night he 
haunted every place in the Quarter where he 
thought he would be likely to find her, and 
finally his perseverance was rewarded. 

He was young, good-looking, and sympa- 
thique. She was a mere child, alone in the 
world, and suffering from her loneliness. 
She abandoned herself to him, hardly con- 
scious of what she was doing, because he 
flattered her, and was the first being on earth 
to appeal to her affections. For eighteen 


LA MADELEINE 


71 


months she lived with him, the patient slave 
of his passions* and of his art. Then, his 
work accomplished, he goaded her into a 
quarrel and turned her out. 

The girl had no inclination to return to 
her former work. She had different notions 
about posing now, and so she became a pro- 
fessional model. She abhorred tight-lacing, 
and with her womanhood developed a figure 
as near the Grecian ideal of perfection as it is 
perhaps possible for the female form in these 
degenerate days to attain. Experts of the 
brush and chisel raved about her. The great 

X secured her services for a louis a 

stance, and when his sensational picture of 
Mary Magdalene daily blocked the Salon 
Carrd of the Palais de 1 ’ Industrie with eager 
crowds from Varnishing Day to the close 
of the memorable Salon of 188-, the plastic 
beauties of the model formed the theme of 
many a newspaper rhapsody. 

It is true that none of the enthusiastic 


72 


AJSr JJ^T FAILURE 


scribes had seen them, except on the canvas; 
but when the previously much-talked-about 
picture had been exposed to the expectant 
public gaze, “fame, with restless wings,” 
had flown loquacious about the wonderful 
model, from the artistic purlieus of the Bou- 
levard de Clichy and of the left bank of the 
Seine to the boulevards of the rastaquou^res. 
That sufficed. She became a la mode, and 
to be a la mode in Paris is everything. It 
matters not whether the object of adulation 
be a Brav’ General, a Russian Admiral, or 
an artist’s model : while the fit lasts he or 
she will have surfeit of it. 

Ere it had been on exhibition a week the 
picture was purchased — by an “ English mi- 
lord,” the papers said — at a fabulous price, 
and at the close of the show it was taken 
away and never seen again; but the title 
remained with the model, and she was always 
known afterward as La Madeleine in studio 
land, where she had previously passed under 


LA MADELEINE 


73 


the name of Frangoise Blanc, given to her at 
the foundling home. 

At that time, had she been so minded, she 
might have had her hotel and carriage and 
pair. The jeunesse and vieillesse — espe- 
cially the vieillesse — dories of the capital 
competed recklessly for the prize against less 
ostentatious but more solid men of a totally 
different category. She received offers, too, 
from more than one enterprising manager of 
a theatre, with an eye to business. But she 
disdainfully nonplussed all comers. She 
had taken a fancy to a Frenchman in her 
own profession and reserved her favors for 
him. She kept him in clover as long as her 
high wages lasted, but when she found he 
did not work because he would not, she re- 
fused to support him any longer and allowed 
her affections to be alienated by Le Beau 
Jules. 

She had always prided herself upon being 
an honest woman, and so she was, judged 


74 


AJV art failure 


from the ethical standpoint of her class, who 
see nothing immoral in twenty-first arron- 
dissement marriages, and esteem all women 
above reproach who are faithful to their 
lovers. She would never have had another 
had the first been worthy of her, and she 
held in utter contempt the woman who sold 
herself for money. 

She had loved Le Beau Jules, and he had 
sworn eternal fidelity to her. He had been 
false, and all the world was false. She was 
weary of her uncertain existence, disgusted 
with the perfidy and egotism of men and the 
jealousy and mesquinerie of women, hopeless 
as to the future. What had she to live for } 
Besides, in a day or two the story of her 
abandonment would get about and she would 
become the laughing-stock of the Quarter. 
The mere thought of it drove her mad with 
desperation and wounded amour propre. De- 
cidedly death would be a thousand times 
preferable to facing this, she told herself 


LA MADELEINE 


75 


passionately, as she hurried down the Rue 
du Bac toward the embankment. 

At the corner near the Pont Royal two po- 



licemen were standing. She walked quietly 
past them along the quay to the next bridge, 
and then sped swiftly along it to the middle. 


76 


AJV ART FAILURE 


O Blessed Mary, mother of God,” she 
moaned, “ have mercy upon thy unhappy 
servant !” 

For a minute she stood there, her face 
buried in her hands, sincerely penitent and 
demanding pardon for the act she was about 
to commit and for her past offences, of Him 
whose name she had not uttered for years 
otherwise than irreverently, as a meaningless 
oath. Then glancing furtively * around to 
assure herself that she was not observed, 
she advanced toward the balustrade. 

As she did so she was startled to see the 
form of a man struggling on to it out of the 
shadow. The man, who evidently had not 
noticed her, appeared to be drunk, and was 
on the point of plunging, or rather falling, 
into the dark waters beneath, when La Made- 
leine, forgetting that she had come there for 
the self-same purpose, instinctively clutched 
his arm. The would-be suicide swerved 
round and fell back upon her like a log. 



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-41 



LA MADELEINE 


79 


nearly knocking her down^ and striking the 
pavement with a thud. 

La Madeleine gazed at him for a moment, 
undecided what to do. All thought of de- 
stroying herself had for the time being van- 
ished. It seemed to her that there was 
something vaguely familiar about the form 
at her feet. She stooped and gently touched 
it. The man did not move. Perhaps he 
stunned himself in falling,” she thought, 
and kneeling down turned him over with his 
face toward the light of a gas-lamp. As 
she did so a cry of surprise escaped her. 

She was not acquainted with his name, 
but knew him well by sight as the friend of 
the big English poet. 

Intoxicated, he, and about to commit sui- 
cide } 

A victim of absinthe and delirium trem- 
ens, no doubt. She knew from experience 
that the poisonous drug induced taciturnity 
and mopishness in some persons, and this 


8o 


AN ART FAILURE 


fact now reemed to explain the — to her — 
unnatural exclusiveness that had always char- 
acterized the young man, and had earned tor 
him the cognomen of “ Le Croquemort” 
among the rollicking set of the Quarter. 

But as she gazed closer at rhe still, white 
face she was struck by the look of suffering 
it bore. And then the deep sunken eyes, 
the drawn cheeks, the wasted hands, the 
threadbare garments told a tale with which 
she was only too familiar. She nad '«5een 
many an ambitious venturer on the sea of 
paint wrecked upon the rock of his poverty 
and vanish forever from the ken of the 
Boulevard Saint Michel. 

La Madeleine, with all her faults, was not 
hard-hearted. She was filled with a great 
pity for the helpless young fellow before her, 
and in her reawakened piety attributed the 
fact that she had arrived on the bridge at 
this psychological moment to the direct 
interventioa of the Virgin. 


LA MADELEINE 


8l 


But what was now to be done ? Having 
saved his life she could not leave him there 
unconscious, maybe dying. She ran first to 
one and then to the other end of 
the bridge, and peered anxiously 
to right and left. 

Not a soul was in 
sight. She had 
started off in 
search of the 
police, when in 
a neighboring 
street she de- 
scried the lamps 
of one of those 
dilapidated vehi- 
cles, drawn and 
driven by equally dilapidated horses and Je- 
hus, that crawl about the streets between the 
witching hour and six a.m., and are dignified 
by a higher tariff and the title of night cabs. 

Her mind was made up in a moment. She 
6 



82 


JJV ART FAILURE 


hastened to meet the cab, and roused the 
driver who was slumbering on his box. 

‘‘To the bridge,” she cried, jumping up 
beside him. The cabman rubbed his eyes 
and roused up the horse, which after a 
shower of blows with the butt-end of the 
whip broke into a jog-trot. 

“Drunk!” said La Madeleine laconically 
by way of explanation when they came up to 
the body. 

The cabman grinned, and seized the artist 
under his arms, while La Madeleine took his 
legs, and together they lifted him into the 
vehicle and laid him on the seat. 

“Whereto.^” queried the Jehu. 

La Madeleine reflected. Better take him 
home, if she could find out where he lived. 
If not, there would be time enough to take 
him to the police-station or the hospital. 

“ Drive up the Boul’ Mich’,” she directed. 

As soon as the cab had got in motion she 
proceeded to investigate the contents of her 


LA MADELEINE 


83 


companion’s pockets. In the waistcoat were 
a few sous, which she carefully replaced; 



but in the coat was a pocket-book, and in 
that some letters, which were what she was 


84 


AN ART FAILURE 


looking for. She could not read a word of 
English, nor would she have sought to pry 
into his private affairs had she been able to, 
her honor in this respect being above her 
curiosity. She concluded that as they mostly 
bore the same name and address they must 
have been addressed to him, and when the 
cab had rumbled a little way up the boule- 
vard directed the driver accordingly. 

When the cab stopped. La Madeleine, who 
began to be alarmed at the continued uncon- 
sciousness of her charge, despite her every 
effort to rouse him, jumped out and rang 
the bell furiously — an operation that, as us- 
ual, had to be repeated several times before 
the door opened. When at last she gained 
admittance she considerably startled the con- 
cierge and his wife by pounding on the win- 
dow of the loge. 

‘‘Who’s there cried the worthy porter, 
and the response being quite unintelligible, 
he proceeded to investigate for himself with 


LA MADELEINE 


85 


a candle in one hand and a revolver in the 
other. 

In a few words La Madeleine, without going 
into details, explained that she had found his 
artist lodger 
insensible i n 
the street, and 
requested t o 
know whether 
he had any 
friends in the 
house. The 
concierge eyed 
her suspicious- 
ly and did not 
answer, but after consulting with his wife 
said that he would come out and see the 
young man. This in a few minutes he did, 
accompanied by Madame Durand carrying 
the candle. 

“Is he dead.?” asked the woman appre 
hensively. 



86 


AN ART FAILURE 


“ No, drunk, I reckon,” said La Madeleine. 

“ Oh ! no,” affirmed the former decisively. 
“Not drunk. I’m sure; or at least I should 
be very much surprised. He hasn’t been 
looking at all well lately, and has been rather 
queer in his manner, hasn’t he, Durand } I 
shouldn’t wonder if something’s the matter 
with him.” 

“ Better send for the commissary of police, 
I think,” opined M. Durand. 

“ Better get him up-stairs first, my dear, if 
he really isn t dead. Perhaps, as Mademoi- 
selle suggests, he’s only drunk after all.” 

“ Hasn’t he got any friends again 
queried La Madeleine. 

“No,” replied Madame Durand; “that is 
to say, a very tall and very chic gentleman 
used to come here sometimes, but I haven’t 
seen him for months.” 

“ Not another soul, male or female, has 
ever visited him to my knowledge,” added 
Durand, “ and if he has any friends anywhere 


LA MADELEINE 


87 



they can’t be very well off, because he hasn’t 
paid any rent for six months, and he must 
have been hard 
up not to do 
that.” 

“That’s nei- 
ther here nor 
there,” said his 
wife sharply. 

“ What we’ve got 
to do now is to get 
him up-stairs.” 

“Hold hard!” 
exclaimed the 
cabman, who had 
been an attentive 
listener to the discussion. “ I want to know 
who’s going to pay me before you take him 
out. Mademoiselle’s responsible, she hired 
me.” 

“ Nobody asked you to put your spoke in,” 
retorted La Madeleine scornfully. “ I fetched 


88 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


you, ril pay you,” handing him just his legal 
fare. 

‘^And my tip?” he queried, eyeing the 
coins in the palm of his hand as though he 
expected them to breed and multiply. 

“ You can go to the devil for that !” said the 
girl, and the couple exchanged facetious com- 
pliments while the Durands lifted the artist 
out of the cab, after the husband had assured 
himself, by placing his hand over his lodger’s 
heart, that the young man was not dead. 

La Madeleine went to their assistance, and 
held the candle while Durand carried him 
up-stairs like a child in his arms. The dreary 
barrenness of the little room was sufficient 
explanation of the real state of affairs. Dur- 
and laid his burden on the bed while his wife 
stood by and clasped her hands with many 
exclamations of pity. 

‘‘ Do you run for a doctor, Durand, while I 
light a fire and warm some bouillon,” she 
directed. 


LA MADELEINE 


89 


Then La Madeleine, who had been silently 
holding the candle, volunteered to help her. 



Her offer was gladly accepted. 
Vou see,” said Madame Durand, 
“it’s a long v^ay up, and I’m not as 
young as I used to be.'' 


90 


JJ\r ART FAILURE 


So La Madeleine made two journeys to 
the basement, carrying the wood and coal in 
a newspaper, and the first fire that had 
burned in the grate for many a day was 
soon started. 

While the bouillon was warming. La 
Madeleine told the woman how she 
had discovered the artist on the bridge 
(without, however, explaining how she 
came to be there herself at that unseemly 
hour), and how she had found out his 
address. 

‘‘You are indeed a good Samaritan,” re- 
marked the woman, whose first distinctly bad 
impression of her companion was dispelled 
by this explanation. 

Together they raised the unconscious ar- 
tist, and endeavored to pour some bouillon 
down his throat. Then they tried brandy, 
and smelling salts, and bathed his temples, 
but all their efforts to bring him round 
were unavailing, and they concluded that it 


LA MADELEINE 


91 


would be advisable to await the arrival of 
medical help. 

At length M. Durand returned with the 
doctor from the neighboring police sta- 
tion. The medical man examined the artist 
long and minutely and looked grave. 

It is very serious,” he said. He is 
literally dying of starvation, and the case is 
further complicated by brain fever.” 

“He had better be taken to the hospital, 
then,” said Durand. 

“ No,” commanded the doctor, “ he must . 
not be moved on peril of his life. It is a 
wonder he is not already dead.” 

“ But he’^ absolutely friendless,” objected 
M. Durand “We’re only the concierges, 
and he’s nowiing to do with us.” 

“ Oh ! in that case,” remarked the doctor, 
glancing round the room and shrugging his 
shoulders, “ he may as well die on the way 
there, as remain here. It is only a question of a 
few days, perhaps only a few hours, anyhow.” 


92 


AJV’ ART FAILURE 


^‘Then/’ said La Madeleine quietly, ‘‘he 
shall die in his bed. If he has none other, 
I will be his friend!” 





CHAPTER VII 


SISTER OF MERCY 

For six weeks Burroughs lay delirious, 
hovering cn the brink of the grave, from 
which he was again saved only by the de- 
voted nursing and self-sacrifice of the woman 
who had snatched him from the dark waters 
of the Seine. 

Durand had grumbled at first, but La 
Madeleine had mollified him by offering to 
go security for the payment of three months’ 
rent, at the expiration of the quarter, on con- 
dition that the proprietor would agree to let 
the settlement of the six months’ rent due 
stand over till the artist recovered, and ab- 
solve her from all responsibility in connec- 
tion with it in the event of his death. 

To the latter agreement the proprietor con- 


93 


94 


AN ART FAILURE 


sented, but insisted upon an advance on the 
quarter about to commence, and La Made- 
leine had perforce to pay. 

She was not rich, but she was resourceful. 
The very sight of her former surroundings 
was now hateful to her, and she had deter- 
mined in any case not to afford Le Beau 
Jules the gratification of finding her in their 
old home if, as was highly probable, he grew 
tired of his new flame and sought to come 
back to her. Besides, she wanted many 
things in the bare garret where her self- 
imposed duties as nurse required her con- 
stant presence. So within a week she had 
her Lares and Penates transferred to Bur- 
roughs’ room and took up her abode there. 

The work of attending the sick man be- 
came extremely irksome and monotonous 
after the novelty of the thing had worn off 
and she had arranged the room to her satis- 
faction. However, she had vowed to the 
Virgin to go through with it, and stuck 


SISTER OF MERCY 


95 


bravely to her task, ministering to him night 
and day. 

Sometimes Madame Durand came and gos- 
siped with her, and occasionally brought her 
snacks from their own frugal board. At other 
times La Madeleine would slip down to the 
loge, where she was 
always welcome, for 
a fast friendship had 
sprung up between 
the two women. 

The Durands were 
poor, but thrifty, with 
a thrift that in the 
case of the husband 
amounted to avarice. 

He would not have 
doled out a sou to assist his helpless lodger, 
but Madame Durand managed in many ways 
to be useful to La Madeleine, and notably by 
attending to the patient when his nurse went 



out. 


96 


AN ART FAILURE 


In the mean time the latter had been com- 
pelled to '' raise the wind.’* When she en- 
tered upon her disinterested labors her whole 
capital only totaled a few louis, and these 
were soon expended in medicine, firing, and 
other necessaries. But this did not trouble 
her a little bit. The doors of the most cele- 
brated ateliers in the city were still eagerly 
opened to her, and she easily secured eight 
francs and even ten francs for a sdance of 
four hours where her less fortunate sisters 
were paid but five francs. 

She had been posing for her old patron, the 

great X . The latter was engaged upon 

an entirely novel rendering of the too well- 
worn subject of Saint Anthony’s temptation, 
and had been cursing the disappearance of his 
model. When therefore La Madeleine turned 
up at nine o’clock one morning to resume her 
work, he hailed her with joy while over- 
whelming her with reproaches. Despite his 
threats and entreaties, however, she refused 


SISTER OF MERCY 


97 


to give him more than one stance a day to 
begin with, and with this he had to be con- 
tent. 

Thereafter she appeared punctually every 
morning at the atelier, and except that she 
remained firm in her refusal to return in the 
afternoon never manifested any of the old- 
time waywardness that had often driven the 
painter to the verge of despair. 

Moreover her demeanor and behavior had 
undergone a complete transformation. She 
was no longer seen in the cafes and brasser- 
ies which she had formerly frequented as a 
matter of course, and when she happened to 
meet her acquaintances — and they were le- 
gion — she curtly acknowledged the greetings 
of a few, coolly cut others, and never stopped 
to converse with a single one, even when 
accosted. 

X , the painter, marvelled, but said 

nothing. The Quarter marvelled, whistled 
to itself, and gossiped. Some opined that 


7 


98 


JJV ART FAILURE 


grief at her desertion by the irresistible Jules 
had turned her head. But the general belief 
was she had taken up with a wealthy admirer, 
and had become too proud for anything. 

As to La Madeleine herself, she was ab- 
sorbed for the nonce by the good work she 
had undertaken. For the future, when she 
thought upon it at all, she saw but two courses 
open to her : to take the veil, if that were 
possible, or to put an end to her aimless ex- 
istence beneath the waters of the Seine. 
Between these she wavered. 

She was entering the house in one of these 
thoughtful moods one afternoon, when she 
was accosted by a cheery “ Hello ! La Made- 
leine !” and turning found herself face to 
face with Vanstant. 

“Hello!” she rejoined, “ so you’ve turned 
up at last I Have you been up-stairs } Have 
you seen him.^” 

“ Seen him ? Who ? Burroughs 

“ Yes, your friend the artist.” 


SISTEI^ OF MERCY 


99 


‘‘No,” said Vanstant, surprised at such a 
question coming from her. “ I only arrived 
in Paris this morning. Why do you ask me 
that? What do you know about him? Is 
anything the matter with him ?” 

La Madeleine asked him to step into the 
loge, and there he was informed of the mis- 
fortune that had befallen his friend, and, by 
Madame Durand, of how La Madeleine had 
cared for him. 

Then they went up-stairs. Vanstant was 
greatly distressed at the artist’s condition, 
and blamed himself bitterly for neglecting to 
keep himself informed as to how he was get- 
ting on. To do him justice, he had no idea 
that Burroughs had begun his struggle penni- 
less. Moreover his own affairs had fully en- 
grossed his attention, for his father had died 
and he had come into the title and vast es- 
tates of Studley. He had seized the earliest 
opportunity to drop over to Paris and look 
his friend up. 


100 


AN ART FAILURE 


When Madame Durand had returned to 
her loge Vanstant, or rather Lord Studley, 
pressed La Madeleine to tell him how she 
came to know the artist, which she did, nar- 
rating with simple candor how she had been 
abandoned by Le Beau Jules, and how on 
going to throw herself into the river she had 
arrived in the nick of time to save the artist 
from the same fate. 

And now you have come,” she added, “ I 
have nothing further to do here. I will go.” 

^^No, my dear Madeleine, you mustn’t 
do that,” said his lordship earnestly, taking 
her hand. “ Go on with the task you have 
so nobly begun. I can best help him by 
staying away, especially if he recovers.” 

La Madeleine looked at him interroga- 
tively. 

“You couldn’t imagine how susceptible 
he is,” he continued. “ He must not know 
that I have been here at all. Has he any 
pictures left?” 


SISTER OF MERCY 


lOI 


Those four on the wall are his, and there 
is this,” she replied, handing him a postcard. 

It was from Duterque and Hoffmeyer’s, the 
art dealers, and requested the artist to take 
his unsold picture away. 

“ The very thing,” said Lord Studley with 
a smile of satisfaction. “ I will buy the pic- 
ture, but he must never know it.” 

It was only after much pressure, however, 
and on the poet’s assuring her that he was 
compelled to return to England in a few days, 
that La Madeleine would consent to stay. 
But she obstinately refused to accept the 
money delicately offered to her for the ex- 
pense she had been put to and might incur. 
The Durands were made glad by the pay- 
ment of the rent owing, and bound to secrecy 
with a present so liberal that it made them 
gasp. 

The next day the poet called at Duterque 
and Hoffmeyer’s to fetch the picture. 

I want to encourage the artist, who is a 


102 


AN' ART FAILURE 


friend of mine,” he said, showing them their 
postcard. I will give you the usual com- 
mission on 2,500 francs if you will enclose 
these notes to that amount in a letter ad- 
dressed to him, stating that the picture 
was purchased by a wealthy collector, who 
has ordered two others from the same 
brush.” 

This was done, and a week later a receipt 
for a similar amount was made out for two 
other pictures that the poet had fetched from 
the artist’s room. 

Studley then went through the collection 
in the establishment, and made a few valu- 
able purchases on his own account, after ob- 
taining the assurance of Messrs. Duterque 
and Hoffmeyer that they would never let 
Burroughs know the name of his benefactor. 

Having in the mean time taken the best 
medical advice upon his friend’s case, his 
lordship returned to England, after leaving 
with the concierges a letter for La Madeleine 


SISTER OF MERCY, 


103 

containing a thousand franc note ^‘to buy 
anything that might be required for the 
patient,” and reminding her of her prom- 
ise to keep him informea of the artist’s 
progress. 




CHAPTER VIII 


THE JOY OF LIVING 

When Burroughs first came to his senses 
he was alone. It was in the afternoon. The 
golden sunlight streaming between two chim- 
ney-stacks on the opposite house-top glinted 
through a big bouquet of lilac that stood in a 
jug at the open window, and still further illu- 
mined with its glory a garish colored chromo 
of the Virgin and child pinned to the wall. 

For a space he lay there languidly watch- 
ing the motes dancing along the slanting way 
of light. Gradually, however, the floodgates 
of memory opened, and thoughts of his pic- 
ture and of his misery filled his mind. He 
essayed to rise, but found that his weakness 
was too great. Then he became conscious 
of the changed aspect of his room. 

105 


io6 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


At first he imagined that he was the victim 
of an hallucination. But he had to believe 
the evidence of his eyes, and then he fell to 
wondering where he was, and how he got 
there. He recognized his few remaining 
studies on the wall, and the familiar chimney- 
pots he could see from his bed. Nothing 
else. The clean sheets, the scrupulously tidy 
room, the carpet on the floor, the strange 
furniture, the lilac at the window, the female 
apparel hanging behind the door, the articles 
of feminine toilet on a real toilet-table, and 
the other indubitable evidences of a woman’s 
presence puzzled him. 

Had he got into the wrong room.^ He 
trembled with fright at the idea! Yet the 
fact that he was too weak to get up forced 
him to the conclusion that he had been ill. 
In any case he could only wait till somebody 
came and explained it all to him. 

That somebody was not long in coming. 
Madame Durand softly opened the door, and 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


107 


took a spoon and a bottle of medicine off the 
toilet-table. 

“Is that you, Madame Durand?” called 
Burroughs feebly. 

“ Dieu de Dieu ! ” ejaculated the woman 
joyfully, going to the bed, “he knows me! 
He is better! He is saved! Oh! my poor 
monsieur, I am so glad. I always said God 
in His mercy would bring you safely through 
it.” 

“ I have been ill, then ?” said the artist, 
as she smoothed the pillow. 

“ 111 ! my poor monsieur, yes, you have 
been ill ! But there, you must not talk, you 
must not exert yourself.” 

“But,” persisted Burroughs, “how long 
have I been ill, and where am I ?” 

“ You are in your own room, and you have 
been ill for six weeks.” 

“ Six weeks ! — my own room ! — Then my 
mother, my sister is here?” he added, glanc- 
ing eagerly around. 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


io8 


No, we did not know whether you had 
any family, or where to find them. But you 
have a friend — a sister here. Oh ! yes, you 
have a sister, une vraie, celle-la — a saint !” 

^‘Who is she.?” he asked, astonished. 

They call her La Madeleine.” 

La Madeleine!” 

Yes; do you know her.?” queried the old 
woman curiously. 

Certes, no ! There is only one person of 
that name I have ever heard of in Paris, and 
she is a model, not a sister of mercy.” 

She is a model and a sister of mercy, to 
you;' for she is the person you speak of. 
But, there, the doctor ordered absolute quiet. 
You have talked too much already, and I 
too, like a silly old woman that I am. I will 
give you your medicine, and you must be 
quiet.” 

Burroughs was more hopelessly bewildered 
than ever. He took his medicine, but he 
would not be quiet. He pleaded so earnestly 


THE JOY OF LIVING 109 


that Madame Durand allowed her firmness to 
be shaken, and sitting by the bed told him 
all she knew. 

When La Madeleine returned Madame 
Durand, who was on the lookout for her, 
called her into the loge and acquainted her 
with the good news. 

Strange to say. La Madeleine’s satisfac- 
tion was not unalloyed with a vague regret. 
He had been her unconscious patient for so 
long, she was so accustomed to ministering 
to him, that it had somehow seemed to her 
that he would remain thus indefinitely. He 
had been the object for her daily toil, the rai- 
son d’etre for her existence. His awakening 
was the beginning of the end of her mission. 

The two women went up -stairs together. 
The artist was sleeping. 

Don’t wake him,” whispered La Made- 
leine, and Madame Durand quietly withdrew, 
after vainly trying to induce the girl to go 
down-stairs with her and have some dinner. 


I 10 


A2V ART FAILURE 


La Madeleine wanted to be alone with her 
thoughts. She sat beside the bed, motion- 
less, in a brown study, her elbows propped 
on her knees and her chin propped in her 



hands, gazing out beyond the chimney-pots 
at the patch of sky, until the twilight shaded 
it with an ever-deepening blue, and a star 
glistened out of it in solitary splendor — a 
stray jewel on the sable mantle of night. 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


III 


A faint, appealing moan recalled her to 
earth :/ 

“ Mademoiselle !” 

La Madeleine rose to her feet instantly, 
and bent over the bed. 

I am burning, I am thirsty,” murmured 
the sufferer. 

She propped him up with her arm while 



she held a cooling drink to his lips. Then 
she drew his head on her breast and stroked 
his feverish brow and his face as though he 


1 12 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


had been a little child, in the protecting, 
motherly way that had come naturally to her 
during the weeks she had been nursing him — 
held him there and soothed him while his 
poor, weak frame shook with sobs, and in a 
passionate burst of weeping he incoherently 
poured out his gratitude to her for all her 
goodness and told her the terrible story of 
his suffering. 

When the fit was over he was exhausted. 

She laid him back gently on the pillow, 
and he again sank off to sleep. The cry and 
confession seemed to have done him good, 
for he slumbered like a child through the 
night, while La Madeleine sat and watched 
him. 

Thereafter he began to improve rapidly 
and was soon on the high road to convales- 
cence. He experienced the joy of living in 
a greater degree than he had ever done in his 
life before. All was rose-color to him now. 
At last his talent was beginning to be recog- 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


113 


nized. His pictures had sold at an incred- 
ibly high price, and he had funds sufficient 
to keep him in relative luxury for a whole 
year. 

Ah ! what would he not accomplish in that 
year! How pregnant with big results it 
would be to him. He was eager to be about 
again and to work at his picture, though he 
would now, alas ! have to wait till the next 
Salon before he could show it to the world. 
Till then none save La Madeleine, who slept 
in the mansarde, could set eyes upon it. 

At the thought of La Madeleine he was 
troubled. He was profoundly grateful to her 
for the disinterested care she had taken of 
him, and felt that it would never be in his 
power to repay her. Whenever he broached 
the subject to her she coldly evaded it. 

More than once when she was musing and 
thought he was sleeping, he had seen the 
tears coursing down her cheeks, and a look 
of hopeless misery in her eyes. Poor Made* 
8 


AN ART FAILURE 


114 

leine ! still suffering from pique at her aban- 
donment, she doubtless looked forward with 
scant pleasure to the shadowy future. Just 
what he could do for her he did not know, but 
he wanted to do something for her somehow, 
and would always be a friend, a brother to 
her, even in the days of his greatness. The 
difference in their future stations would 
make no difference to him, he prided him- 
self, with just a little self-satisfaction at his 
surprising condescension. 

Or maybe she was thinking of Le Beau 
Jules. He felt a pang half of jealousy, half 
of sullen anger at the idea, though he would 
not have admitted such a thing even to him- 
self. But, pshaw ! she would soon console 
herself with another lover — women like her 
always did, he supposed — and she would re- 
lapse into her old life again quite naturally. 

In the mean time he looked upon her going 
away as a disagreeable necessity that he did 
not care to dwell upon. The fact was, he 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


115 


could not bear her out of his sight. The 
days she spent at the atelier appeared to him 
interminable, and he awaited the hour of her 
home-coming with restless impatience. How 
he would miss her cheery presence, the suc- 
culent, cosy dinners she prepared with such 
skill, and the pleasant evenings they passed 
together during which she beguiled him with 
queer reminiscences, grave and gay, which 
threaded together told the story of her life. 
She somehow seemed to have become a part 
of his existence, though to what extent he did 
not realize until the time came for her to go. 

It was one evening after dinner, when the 
lamp was lighted. Burroughs, who was con- 
valescent, and experiencing one of those rare 
moments of whole contentment when one is 
at peace with one’s self and all the world, 
was listening to the rain-drops pattering on 
the window-panes and watching the smoke 
of his cigarette curling in gray-blue clouds 
toward the ceiling. 


AN ART FAILURE 


1 16 


La Madeleine, who had been unusually 
thoughtful throughout the repast, broke the 
silence that both had guarded by tacit con- 
sent for fully five minutes. 

‘‘I am going away,” she said. ‘‘You are 
well now, and do not need my care. I can- 
not stay here any longer.” 

Burroughs was bound to admit to himself 
the wisdom of her decision, though it im- 
pressed him very painfully. It must be so. 
Their po'sition was a most irregular one. It 
was altogether contrary to hb, principles, and 
at first he had been very uneasy about it. It 
was strange how this uneasiness had worn 
off as he became accustomed to her presence. 
His conscience had pricked him at times — at 
increasingly long intervals — but it had been 
quieted by the argument that the situation had 
not been brought about by himself, hut by 
force of circumstances ; that it was a purely 
platonic and wholly necessary one, and that 
it must of necessity soon be put an end to. 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


I17 


''And when do you propose to go?” he 
asked, ;with just the suspicion of a tremor in 
his voice. 

" This very night — now. I have made all 
arrangements.” 

"To-night!” he repeated mechanically. 
Had she mentioned some future day he 
might perhaps by a determined exercise of 
will power have reconciled himself to the 
idea. But she was going away at once, and 
when the door had closed upon her she would 
be practically shut out of his life forever, and 
he would be alone in his dreary solitude. 
And then, for the first time, he understood 
what that meant for him — that he loved her ; 
that the joy of living that gladdened his 
heart and was making him strong and well 
emanated from and depended upon her. 

He thought upon all she had done for him. 
She had saved him from a suicide’s fate ; a 
stranger, alone in the world, spurned by his 
own father, penniless, helpless, unconscious, 


1 18 AN ART FAILURE 


dying, she had taken him in from purely dis- 
interested motives. Yet she, too, had been 
abandoned and was alone in the world ! 

The narrowness of his pet views and theo- 
ries was suddenly revealed to him as by an 
open book. Where was the merit in the 
chastity of her sisters who had been jealously 
guarded and carefully reared to womanhood 
and then given in marriage.? How many of 
them cast adrift, with none to guide them, 
exposed to the buffets and allured by the 
mirages of life, would have passed through 
the ordeal as well as La Madeleine had done .? 

His art.? His future.? His love would 
inspire him to great deeds, and when he was 
great he could afford to laugh at the world 
and what it thought and said. And, after 
all, what to him was art, the world, anything, 
without La Madeleine ? 

Flushed and agitated he arose. 

Madeleine ! Madeleine !” he cried appeal- 
ingly, '^you must not go — I cannot let you 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


I19 

go. I love you, Madeleine, and you must 
stay with me always !” 

She gazed at him for an instant with wide. 



frightened eyes, then starting up seized her 
hat and fled out of the room. 

He rushed after her and wrestled with her 


120 


AN ART FAILURE 



on the landing, but his strength gave out; 
he sank exhausted at her feet, and La Made- 
leine continued her flight. Despair, how- 
ever, gave him fresh energy, and struggling 


up, he bounded after her and caught her ere 
she had reached the street. 

** Come back, Madeleine,’* he implored. 
“ Do not leave me to die !” And La Made- 
leine, fearful of creating a scandal, returned 
to reason with him. 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


12 I 


'^What you ask is impossible, my poor 
boy,” she said. I am ten years older than 
you. In a year or two your infatuation 
would wear off ; you would tire of me ; you 
would regard me as a clog upon your ef- 
forts, a drawback to your advancement ; you 
would deeply regret your folly, quarrel with 
me, leave me. And what would be left 
for me.^” 

Madeleine, I swear ” 

** Hush !” she interrupted with a mocking 
laugh, keeping him at a distance with a ges- 
ture. “ You forget that I have been through 
this before — more than once. You would 
not pick up what others — many others — have 
cast off as worthless !” 

Oh ! Madeleine, don’t ! don’t !” he sup- 
plicated, clasping her and placing a hand on 
her mouth. “ They were not worthy of you. 
Don’t think of the past. Think only of me 
and of my great love ! Let us forget that 
we have lived. I have not lived till now. I 


122 


AJV ART FAILURE 


will always be true to you, Madeleine, al- 
ways, always ! I will marry you, I swear it ! 
I will worship you all the days of my life. 
Only tell me that you love me.” 

It is because I love you that I seek to 
disabuse you,” she moaned, disengaging her- 
self and burying her face in her hands. If 
I listen to you, you will hate me, and curse 
me one of these days. It is useless to pro- 
test. I know only too well what I am talk- 
ing about. It is better to part at once and 
forever. You will soon get over it, and then 
you will bless me.” 

“ My darling,” exclaimed the artist pas- 
sionately, ^^my life was a blank until you 
came into it. I was lost in the gloom of a 
loveless existence until you illumined it with 
the sunshine of your presence. Do you think 
it was a mere coincidence that in going to 
your death you should have saved me and 
yourself at the same time.^ No, Madeleine, 
it was destiny. We were to come together. 


THE JOY OF LIVING 


123 


Or, if you do not love me, if you will leave 
me now, it would have been far better to have 
left me to die then, for I cannot live without 
you.’* 

He opened his arms. A tender light that 
he had never seen there before beamed in 
Madeleine’s tear-dimmed eyes. He drew 
her, unresisting, to him, and their lips met in 
the ecstasy of a first kiss. 






N W \ f 



CHAPTER IX 

IDYL 

Reached by omnibus from Ar- 
genteuil, from which it is sepa- 
rated by a vast plain devoted to 
the culture of asparagus and the 
vine, Cormeil straggles up the southwestern 
extremity of the wood-clad hills of Argenteuil, 
and is one of the prettiest and quietest little 
villages in the department of Seine-et-Oise. 

From the southern slope of the range the 


125 


126 


AN ART FAILURE 


eye can reach from Saint Denis to Saint 
Germain, and away beyond the river-divided 
plain over Paris and its suburbs clustering 
round the gilded dome of the Invalides, and 



guarded sentinel-like by 
the frowning fort of Mont 
Val^rien. 

The northern slope com- 
mands an extensive view 
of the valley of Montmorency and of the op- 
posite forest-crowned hills of the same name. 
It was to Cormeil that Burroughs and La 


IDYL 


127 


Madeleine had come for the change of air 
essential to the complete re-establishment of 
the former, and to spend their honeymoon. 
Monsieur and Madame Burroughs occupied a 
modest lodging in the house of a vine-grower 
in the highest part of the village, and were 
supremely happy. 

Burroughs simply adored his wife. He 
was furiously, madly in love with her, and 
made no effort to restrain the violence of his 
passion. He worshipped the very ground she 
trod upon; her voice was the sweetest of 
music to his ears ; her presence was as 
necessary to him as the air he breathed. In 
his eyes she was the most radiantly beautiful 
woman in existence, and he marvelled at his 
former blindness and at the fact that having 
once seen her he had been able to live with- 
out her. He was completely transformed. 
The fierceness of his flame was the more in- 
tense because the volcano which, all unknown 
to him, had been smouldering in the depth of 


128 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


his sombre nature, had been for so long sup- 
pressed beneath the crust of his austerity and 
strength of will. Now that it had found an 
outlet it was beyond control. It filled his 
whole being, it mastered his mind and body, 
and the intoxication of the present rendered 
him indifferent anent, oblivious of, the future. 

There were moments, however, when the 
thought of his idol’s past and that she had 
been another’s damped his delirious joy. 
Then he was tempted to kill her and himself. 
But a word, a smile, from La Madeleine, who 
regarded his fits of gloom as a natural but 
temporary outcome of his illness, healed the 
wound as by magic and brought him instantly 
under her spell again. 

La Madeleine was awed by the extrava- 
gance of his love and of her own. She had 
imagined that she loved Le Beau Jules: she 
had mistaken the need of the sympathy of a 
kindred soul for the divine passion itself. 
It had been reserved for this scion of a cold, 


IDYL 


129 


phlegmatic race, who spoke her tongue with 
a broad 'English accent and hopelessly mixed 
its genders, to reveal love tp her in the flower 
of her womanhood, and the revelation had 
come with the first contact of their lips, that 
had thrilled her through and through. In 
her eyes he was the embodiment of all that 
was most noble, and generous, and great in 
man. There was none like unto him in all 
the world. He had elevated her to a higher, 
purer atmosphere, communicated to her the 
spirit of the poetry of his nature. 

They would wander together far away into 
the country, into the glorious blaze of morn- 
ing sunshine in the valley, odorous with the 
perfume of countless fruit-trees in bloom. 
In the coolness of the lingering twilight, 
when the insect world that peopled the woods 
mingled its myriad voices in the drowsy hum 
of the evening lullaby, when the air was 
heavy with t^e smell of acacia blossoms and 
of the earth and plants and trees refreshed by 


9 


130 


AN ART FAILURE 


dew, they would stand silently on the hill- 
side, hand in hand, and watch the lights 
gleam out one by one through the heat-mist 
that overhung the great human hive beyond 
the plain. 

The artist rarely went out without his 
sketch book, or paint box, but the subject of 
his skill was always the same : La Madeleine. 
The shady avenue, the flower-starred dell, the 
distant landscape that appealed to his artistic 
instinct only served as a background where- 
with to set off her dainty figure. 

And thus they lived, or rather dreamed, 
through the long, warm days of summer, 
while the grape harvest was garnered, while 
the woods took on their autumn tints of gold 
and russet and red, till November winds 
soughed coldly through the trees and whirled 
the shrivelled leaves in wild, fantastic eddies 
over the hardened ground. 

Then they returned to Paris. 

The country had been good, but it was 





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IDYL 


133 


good to be in town once more. There is a 
season for, both. The rain that slanted out 
of the lowering clouds at eventide on to the 
sodden slopes and roads of Cormeil and 
dripped monotonously from the leafless trees 
in the wood was depressing. In Paris it beat 
upon the even pavement and transformed it 
into a mirror in which the electric lights 
of the street-lamps and of the brilliantly 
illuminated cafes on the boulevards reflected 
a silvery and golden sheen. The careless 
crowd sauntered along, laughing and chatting 
under their streaming umbrellas, a race of 
incorrigible flaneurs, never in a hurry and 
seemingly indifferent to the rawness of the 
temperature. Dainty female forms, raising 
their skirts provokingly, with the inimitable 
grace peculiar to the Parisienne, flitted in 
and out through the ceaseless stream of 
vehicular traffic that rumbled over the sound- 
deadening wood-paved road. 

It was an animated scene, that electrifled 


^34 


JJ\r ART FAILURE 


Burroughs, that imbued him with renewed 
energy and an eagerness to be up and doing. 
His dormant ambition was roused. He felt 
himself capable of great things. Paris had 
vanquished him, but it was his turn now : he 
would conquer Paris ! 

On reaching the Rue Serpente, unable to 
restrain his impatience, he bounded up the 
stairs to the mansarde where his unfinished 
“ Beatrice” stood. Opening the door with 
some trepidation, he tore aside the covering 
and gazed long and intently at the picture. 
To his great joy he found that his fear of it 
had vanished. The eyes seemed to have lost 
their hypnotic power, and looked out of the 
canvas at him with the beatific expression he 
fancied must have shone in them when the 
celestial maid appeared to Dante on the 
banks of Lethe. Yet now that they had lost 
their influence over him, a vague doubt for 
the first time invaded his mind. 

He started when La Madeleine touched 


IDYL 


135 


him gently on the shoulder, and turning folded 
her convulsively in his arms. 

‘^Ah! my little wife,” he sighed, would 
to God I had loved you before I commenced 
my picture. Would to God I could undo all 
that I have done, and begin over again. But 
that cannot be ; I dare not. It is too late, 
toe late r* 




CHAPTER X 


FACE TO FACE 

Happy, happy, Madeleine ! Happy in the 
love of an honest man, happy in her love for 
him, happy in the consciousness of her re- 
generated womanhood, happy in her hope and 
confidence in the future. But — there is al- 
ways a but’’ or an “ if” that shadows, be it 
ever so lightly, the satisfaction experienced 
at the wish gratified or the end attained — her 
happiness was sometimes marred by a trouble 
which she did not dare to make known to her 
husband. She dreaded that any day she, or 
both of them, might meet her old lover, Le 
Beau Jules. Knowing the latter as she did, 
she was convinced that he and La Petite Irma 
could not long agree, and that he would sooner 
or later return and seek her till he found her. 


137 


138 


AJSr AJ^T FAILURE 


And then? If he met her in company 
with her husband, what would happen ? 
Since the memorable night when, folding her 
in his arms, he had sworn to love and cherish 
her, and entreated her to bury the past in the 
abyss of forgetfulness forever. Burroughs 
had never made the slightest allusion to her 
former life, nor to any of the persons con- 
nected with it. Whenever she manifested a 
tendency to wax even the most innocently 
reminiscent, a coldly absent look which she 
did not like to see there would settle upon 
his face, and knowing she was treading on 
dangerous ground she would hasten to change 
the subject. 

A nature capable of such deeply passionate 
love as he had shown might, she suspected, 
be capable of equally passionate wrath when 
roused, notwithstanding that he was physi- 
cally delicate. Le Beau Jules was morally a 
coward, but he was strong and hot-headed. 
He would never believe that they were mar- 


FACE TO FACE 


139 


ried, and if he did would not care. He was 
too much of an egoist. Rage and jealousy 
would crush any generous sentiment he 
might possess, and he would pick a quarrel 
with and insult her husband. 

If she met him alone she would scorn him ; 
she would not know him; she would treat 
him with contempt. If he persecuted her, 
she would, for her dear husband’s sake, ex- 
plain her position to him and reason with 
him. If he then persisted — she did not know 
what she would do. 

She preferred not to meet him at all, and 
to avoid the possibility of doing so had sug- 
gested to Burroughs that they remove to a 
quiet little place in the environs somewhere. 
Did he remember how happy they had been 
at Cormeil ? How good it would be to live 
in the country always. How she would like 
to have a bit of garden of her own. Or, if 
he did not care to leave the city, they might 
reside on the other side of the river — in the 


140 


AN ART FAILURE 


Ternes quarter, for instance. It would be 
so nice to be near the Bois de Boulogne, 
where they could get a breath of fresh air, 
and away from the BouF Mich’, where they 
were known “comme le loup blanc.” 

But Burroughs had gently but firmly de- 
clined to shift. He loved the Quarter for 
itself, and for the sorrows and joys he had 
known in it. For the people who inhabited 
it he did not now care a tinker’s anathema, 
and he did not suppose they were any more 
interested in himself or his affairs. “ They 
will be one day, though,” he had added with 
a hopeful smile, “and that ere long.” Then 
she should have a place in town a7id in the 
country. 

So she had bowed to the inevitable, though 
feeling just a little hurt at his lack of regard 
for her sentiments, or at his want of compre- 
hension of the situation, and trusted to luck 
while remaining as secluded as possible. 
She had also faith in the protection of the 


FACE TO FACE 


141 

Virgin Mary, to whom she attributed all thQ 
benefits that had befallen her and all the 
felicity she had enjoyed since the incident on 
the bridge. 

La Madeleine had become very devout in 
a simple and earnest way. She never went 
to' confess, nor did 
she observe fast 
days, nor follow in 
any way the rules 
and customs of the 
Church ; but when 
her marketing took 
^er near Notre 
xJame she frequent- 
ly dropped into the 
cathedral and offer- 
ed up a brief but heartfelt prayer for contin- 
ued protection, for blessings upon her hus- 
band, and for the success of his work. 

One afternoon she wended her way as far 
as the Halles Centrales in the hope of find- 



142 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


ing something with which to tempt Bur- 
roughs’ dainty appetite at dinner. On her 
way back she entered Notre Dame. She 
dipped her fingers into the holy-water basin, 
purchased, as she was accustomed to do, a 
small taper, which she lit herself and spiked 
with a number of others that were burning 
before the statue of the Virgin with the Child 
on her arm, and then continuing down the 
left aisle knelt upon a rush-bottomed prie- 
dieu. 

There were very few people in the grand 
old fane. Half-a-dozen tourists, English or 
American, were walking round and gazing 
up in reverent awe at the lofty, slender- col- 
umned arches and at the mysteries depicted 
on the marvellous stained-glass windows, 
while an usher in a loud voice was informing 
them that for fifty centimes .apiece the treas- 
ury might be visited. One or two women 
and a Little Sister of the Poor, who had come 
there for the same purpose as La Madeleine, 


FAC£ TO FACE 


143 


were bending in front of the chancel rail be- 
fore the high altar. A few miserable tatter- 
demalions, out at knee, out at elbow, and of 
various ages, were apparently engaged in a 
profound study of the statues and confession- 
als in the side chapels. In reality they were 
warming their shivering limbs over the grat- 
ings in the floor of the aisles, which sent up a 
comforting stream of hot air. And opposite 
the placid Virgin, in an obscurity unlightened 
by a solitary taper, the unheeded, agonizing 
Christ looked out upon the scene with an all- 
embracing regard of tender pity. 

La Madeleine had been somewhat low- 
spirited all day. She was oppressed with a 
vague apprehension of impending evil which 
she had been unable to shake off, and looked 
for the solace she rarely failed to And in 
prayer; but though she prayed longer and 
more fervently than usual she rose from her 
devotions nervous and unquiet. She was 
conscious that some one was watching her 


144 


AN ART FAILURE 


intently. Her heart leaped into her mouth 
as she turned her head and saw Le Beau 
Jules fixing her with curious and embarrassed 
interest, but her perturbation did not show 
itself. There was not the suspicion of rec- 
ognition in the calm, expressionless gaze that 
met his for a single second. 

It was impossible to pass to the other side 
of the church, for the side aisles are railed 
off from the seats which flank the central 
aisle. She drew down her veil, quietly quit- 
ted the row of chairs, forgetting the small 
parcel she had laid beside her, and to avoid 
passing him walked down the church, in- 
tending to go out by a side door in the Rue 
du Cloitre. 

Her former lover was quickly beside her. 

“ Madeleine,” he murmured. 

La Madeleine did not reply. 

“ It’s mey Madeleine,” he insisted, touch- 
ing her arm. 

She turned and eyed him with cold sur- 


FACE TO FACE 


145 


prise. ‘‘Whom are you addressing.^” she 
demanded. “ I do not know you.” 

“ Oh ! come, now, don’t be stupid,” expos- 
tulated Le Beau Jules, with an embarrassed 
attempt at a laugh. “ I know I haven’t acted 
square, and all that, and it’s only natural you 
should feel sore about it. So do I.” 

“ Sir,” she said again, “ I do not know 
you. Leave me.” 

“ Mazette ! but we have become mighty 
haughty as well as mighty religious all of a 
sudden. I’ve been looking for you every- 
where. Luckily I caught sight of you in the 
Rue de Rivoli just now. I followed you, 
curious to see what you were up to and 
where you were going. I little expected to 
follow you in here, and to find that you had 
been struck so good as all that. No, but 
seriously,” he continued, finding she took 
no notice of him. “Don’t be stupid. I 
promise I’ll never do it again. I’m a 
changed man — fact, I am ! Ah ! if you 


10 


146 


AN ART FAILURE 


only knew what I’ve been through! You 
were right when you used to say that I 
should never find another like you. I’ve 
found out my mistake. I’ll tell you all about 
it, presently.” 

“Look here,” said La Madeleine, “you 
are wasting your time and your breath. I 
don’t want your explanations. The greatest 
service you ever rendered me was in leaving 
me. If you want to do me another, never 
speak to me again. It is all over between 
us forever. I am married — do you under- 
stand married ; and I don’t want to be 
seen leaving here in your company.” 

She passed out of the church, but he fol- 
lowed close at her heels. 

“ Married 1” he said incredulously, “ mar- 
ried! You.? Collee, you mean !” 

“ I tell you I am married.” 

“ Aliens done ! What are you giving me ? 
You take me for another! Coll6e you are, I 
know it, and it isn’t nice of you. You knew 


FAC^ TO FACE 


147 


well enough I would come back, and might 
have waited for me. However, it’s my fault. 
I have no right to reproach you. I have act- 
ed dirtily myself. It serves me right. But 
I have returned, my little Madeleine — and 
here I am !” 

She made an impatient gesture. 

“ Listen, my little Madeleine,” he con- 
tinued, in softly coaxing tones. I know 
you are with a type who has money — they 
told me so — and that you don’t pose now ; 
but you can’t love him — neither I nor you 
can love anybody else after loving as we have 
loved. You need not go back. Ah! no I 
could not hear of that! I have found you 
again. Let us forgive each other and begin 
afresh.” 

Were I homeless, friendless, starving, I 
would rather beg ; I would rather sell myself 
body and soul to the first comer ; I would 
rather lie in yonder morgue than return to 
you! Do you hear me?” cried La Made- 


148 


AN ART FAILURE 


leine fiercely. ‘‘As it is, I am married, 
really married, and happy." 

“Married! Oh! la, la! You persist in 
giving me that blague!" said Le Beau Jules 
sneeringly. He had been rather cowed by 
her passionate outburst, but tried hard not to 
show it. 

“Yes, and if you have still a spark of 
manhood, of generosity left, if you ever did 
care for me," she went on, becoming in turn 
appealingly persuasive, “you will leave me 
now and forget me; you will never show 
that you know me if you meet me." 

“ It is not true that you are married I 
You lie, nom de Dieu !" he shouted furiously, 
seizing her wrist so roughly that his nails 
sank into the flesh. “ I see it all, now : you 
are the mistress of a priest !" 

Like an enraged tigress La Madeleine 
turned upon him and struck him in the face 
with all her strength, crying, “Coward!" 
Releasing his hold he staggered back a few 


FAC£ TO FACE 


149 


paces, and she followed him up, her hands 
clenched, her face distorted, hissing, “ Cow- 
ard ! Coward ! Coward !” 

Rapidly as the violent scene had passed, 
it had attracted the attention of several per- 
sons, who began to form 
a small crowd. La Ma- 
deleine walked quickly 
down the street without 
once looking back. Le 
Beau Jules stood for 
two or three minutes 
dumbfounded. He hes- 
itated between follow- 
ing her up and renew- 
ing the quarrel, and letting her go her way. 
Discretion carried the day, and he strolled 
sheepishly off in the opposite direction, phi- 
losophizing to himself. He was satisfied 
that he had completely lost his hold upon 
her and that there was not the faintest hope 
of ever regaining it. 



AN ART FAILURE 


150 


** Let her go to blazes, after all, since she's 
like that,” he muttered. '‘What a vixen! 
What a fury ! Since she has got in with the 
calottins she has developed a worse temper 
than ever. Word of honor, one would think 
she was the only woman in the Quarter 1 She 
forgets that there are others.” 

La Madeleine went home by a roundabout 
way, purchased some provisions to replace 
those she had left in Notre Dame, and when 
she reached the Rue Serpente all trace of her 
excitement had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XI 


CRIME AND EXPIATION 

At the corner of the Rue du Tresor and 
the Rue Vieille du Temple, a few hundred 
yards from the Rue de Rivoli, is a small 
wine-shop, kept by one Petrelli. There is 
nothing to distinguish it from the ordinary 
fourth-rate brown-painted mastroquet, ex- 
cept, perhaps, that at night rather too much 
economy is observed in the matter of gas. 

Two or three men were playing at Zanzi- 
bar — that is, throwing dice — for red eggs 
and demiseptiers of ‘‘petit bleu” at the zinc 
counter, behind which the patron was en- 
gaged in wiping glasses with a napkin that 
had presumably once been white. 

Now and then a few young men, some- 
times accompanied by companions of the 
151 


152 


AJV ART FAILURE 


other sex, sauntered into the shop and passed 
through a door at the rear, admitting momen- 
tarily as they did so a burst of harmony and 
a flood of light. 

Many there to-night ?” queried a youth, 
as he stopped to light a cigarette at a gas-jet 
on the counter. 

“ Not many for a Saturday,” was the an- 
swer, with a dubious shrug of the shoulders. 

A slight, girlish 
form appeared at the 
door, hesitated a mo- 
ment, and advanced 
into the shop. 

^‘Is he there.?” 
asked the visitor, ad- 
dressing the patron. 

Yes, he thought 
he was there — least- 
ways, he had seen and spoken to him early 
in the evening. 

‘‘La Petite Irma!” he exclaimed, looking 



CRIME AND EXPIATION 1 53 


after her with curious interest. "‘Tiens! 
tiens ! I wonder where she comes from and 
what she is up to.? Hi! you there, Jean, 
come here and look after the counter a 
minute.” 

La Petite Irma pushed open the myste- 
rious door, and found herself in a long 
T-shaped room. Several couples were waltz- 
ing down the long central section to the 
strains of an orchestra composed of two vio- 
lins and a harp, elevated out of the way on 
a couple of tables at the other extremity. 

In the rooms forming the angles were a 
number of small tables, at which men and 
women were seated, smoking, drinking, and 
chatting. 

After each dance a woman — the wife of 
the patron — went among the perspiring 
couples and collected two sous from each of 
the men. 

The company was composed principally of 
the sons and daughters of sunny Italy, and 


154 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


the women, attired for the most part in the 
picturesque garb of their native land, ob- 
viously belonged to the itinerant-musician 
class, who grind out popular airs on a barrel- 
organ, or violin, or accordion, most excru- 
ciating of instruments ; or to the lowest or^ 
der of models, who invade the ateliers en 
famille, and in the summer when work is 
slack laze away their dolce-far-niente exist- 
ence in squalid misery in the Mouffetard 
quarter. 

La Petite Irma was evidently no stranger 
to the place. She threaded her way through 
the throng of dancers to the other end of the 
room, and peered eagerly through the cloud 
of tobacco smoke that enveloped the tables. 

The color in her doll-like face came and 
went rapidly as she perceived Antonio en- 
gaged in earnest conversation with a strik- 
ingly handsome girl, attired a I’italienne, 
whose laughing, lustrous eyes beamed with 
evident pleasure at his flattery. 


CRIME AND EXPIATION ISS 


La Petite Irma watched them for an in- 
stant, pressing her hand to her heart to still 
its violent beating, then went up to him and, 



bursting into tears, threw her arms round his 
neck. 

My Antonio, pardon !” 

When he recovered from his surprise, An- 
tonio, deathly pale, arose, and throwing her 


156 


AN ART FAILURE 


from him as though she had been a poisonous 
reptile, raised his hand to strike her. 

Antonio !” exclaimed the patron re- 
proachfully, staying his arm. 

“ Let me alone !” retorted the Italian 
hoarsely; then raising the weeping woman 
cowering at his feet, he threw a five-franc 
piece on to the table, and hurried her into the 
street, leaving his late companion giggling 
angrily at her abandonment. 

They made their way to the Place de THd- 
tel de Ville, and walked rapidly backward 
and forward along the deserted asphalt, the 
man with knitted brow and tightly clenched 
hands, the woman at his side imploring his 
pardon, and telling him between her sobs the 
story of her seduction and desertion by Le 
Beau Jules. 

I was mad,” she said. He seemed to 
exercise some mysterious influence over me, 
and maybe I wanted to spite La Madeleine. 
He was afraid of you and of her, and we 


CRIME AND EXPIATION 157 


went to Rome. He said there were many 
French artists there, and we should get 
plenty of work to do. 

^^At first he was all that was kind; but 
when the money was gone and we could find 
no work he became irritable and morose. 
He quarrelled with me about La Madeleine, 
and one day when I reproached him for hav- 
ing tempted me away from you, he reviled me 
and would have struck me, but I fought 
him. I had borne everything up to then, but 
I could not stand that. He was not you, 

‘‘ I never resisted when you beat me, 
my Antonio, did I she continued, clutch- 
ing her companion’s arm and gazing entreat- 
ingly into his livid face, which was ren- 
dered the more sinister by the grim smile 
that flickered over it. 

‘‘ Go on !” he ordered, shaking her off. 

“When I showed fight he became per- 
fectly mad with rage. He rushed at me like 
a wild beast, and struck me down. How 


158 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


long I lay there I do not know, but when I 
recovered my senses he was gone. 

“ I had not a sou, but after a time some of 
the artists at the Villa M6dicis helped me, 
and I managed to scrape together enough to 
pay my fare back to Paris. I arrived yester- 
day, and have been searching for you ever 
since. They told me at the old lodging that 
they had not seen you for a week.” 

She stopped. Her companion vouchsafed 
no remark, but strode along in moody silence. 
La Petite Irma grasped his arm coaxingly. 
This time he suffered her hand to lay there, 
and, emboldened, she continued : 

‘‘ I have wronged you, my Antonio, but I 
have never ceased to love you. Kill me, if 
you will, but avenge me — avenge us !” 

‘‘ Do you know what became of him ?” he 
inquired, after thinking awhile. 

‘‘ I heard last night that he had been seen 
in the Quarter for some days past, and that 
he was hunting for La Madeleine every- 


CRIME AND EXPIATION 159 


where ; but they say that she went off with 
a howling swell — a banker or something — 
months ago, and has not been heard of 
since.” 

Antonio looked at his watch. It was just 
eleven o’clock. 

‘‘ Are you hungry he asked. 

“ I — I have eaten nothing since last 
night,” she faltered. 

‘‘Then get something and go home,” he 
said, handing her a few francs. 

“You are good,” murmured the girl, her 
eyes filling with grateful tears. “ Wo — won’t 
you come with me.^” 

“No; I have an appointment.” 

“ Can’t you put it off 
“ No.” 

“Will you come later.?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

He walked away, but she followed him. 

“ Kiss me, Antonio, just one kiss,” she 
entreated, “ just one !” 


i6o AN ART FAILURE 


He stood a moment irresolute, then kissed 
her gravely on the forehead. She clung to 
him, and he kissed her quickly, passionately, 
many times on the mouth, broke away, and 
was gone before she had recovered her 
breath. 

La Petite Irma stood gazing stupidly in 
the direction he had taken. She wondered 
where he was going, and why, since they had 
“made it up,” he had not remained with her. 
But she wondered more than all at his kind- 
ness. She had expected to be spurned and 
terribly beaten ; she had even feared he 
might kill her on sight. 

That he would have done so had he en- 
countered her she did not for an instant 
doubt, and was glad she had found him and 
taken him by surprise. To this fact she at- 
tributed his calmness. Yet she knew he 
was not the man to let an injury done to him 
go unavenged. A savage joy filled her 
breast as she thought that he would certainly 


CRIME AND EXPIATION l6l 


take a terrible revenge upon Le Beau Jules 
whenever he came across him. 

Then it flashed into her shallow brain that 
he had gone to seek him. He would perhaps 
kill him, and then he would be hunted down, 
thrown into prison, executed. At the very 
least he would be loaded with chains and 
sent away beyond the seas to pass many 
years in ignominious captivity. 

She trembled with terror at the thought. 
She bitterly regretted the mistake she had 
made in telling him that Le Beau Jules was 
in Paris. Why had she not waited } Why, 
oh ! why had she egged him on } Why had 
she not thought of the consequences before ? 
Why had she let him go ? 

Wild with fear and remorse, she hurried 
after her lover in the vain hope of overtaking 
him. 

Meanwhile Antonio, with boiling blood, 
and murder in his heart, hurried over the 
Pont d’Arcole, across the Place du Parvis 

zi 


AN ART FAILURE 


162 


Notre Dame and on into the Boulevard Saint 
Michel. It was nearly twelve o’clock. The 
theatres and caf^-concerts were emptying 
and their audiences were flocking to the cafds 
and brasseries on the boulevard. 

Antonio had not proceeded far up the 
boulevard when he encountered Le Beau 
Jules, with a cigarette between his lips, 
strolling jauntily along in conversation with 
the Decadent Duransaur. They did not no- 
tice Antonio, and the latter passed them, 
seeing red.” He turned and gazed after 
them. Duransaur was holding open the 
door of a cafe for his companion to enter. 
The latter, with that exaggerated simulacrum 
of politeness which displays ignorance of the 
higher code of breeding, was demurring at 
entering the caf6 first. 

Quick as a flash the Italian glided up be- 
hind and, brusquely raising Le Beau Jules’ 
left arm, plunged a knife into his heart. 

So quickly had the crime been committed 



»» 


** PLUNGED A KNIFE INTO HIS HEART. 



CRIME AND EXPIATION 165 


that none of the passers-by who had wit- 
nessed it realized just what had happened till 
they heard Duransaur’s frantic shouts of 
“A Tassassin !” and saw Le Beau Jules wel- 
tering in his blood on the cafe step, with the 
knife still sticking in his breast. 

A hue and cry was at once raised, but the 
murderer had gained a considerable advance 
and was speeding across the Place Saint 
Michel before the crowd had well started in 
pursuit. 

He was, however, intercepted by a couple 
of sergents de ville, who, hearing the shout 
ing and perceiving a man running at the top 
of his speed, grappled with him and secured 
him after a desperate struggle. 

The execution had been expected for 
nearly a week. The usual appeal for mercy 
put forward by the condemned man’s counsel 
on behalf of his client, who had sullenly re- 
fused to take the initiative, had been rejected 


AN ART FAILURE 


1 66 


by the Court of Cassation, and there was no 
hope that the Pardons Commission would 
recommend the President of the Republic to 
overrule the finding of the Court. 

Had the jury been made acquainted with 
the motive for the crime, they would beyond 
a doubt have found extenuating circumstances 
and saved the prisoner from the gory clutch 
of Monsieur de Paris. The hero of a crime 
passionnel, he would probably have escaped 
with a couple of years’ imprisonment, and 
would have been hurried out of court fol- 
lowed by the sympathy of the emotional 
audience. He might even have been ac- 
quitted. But Antonio had guarded a fero- 
cious silence which the utmost efforts of 
the examining magistrate had been unable to 
break, and there being absolutely nothing 
wherewith to work upon the feelings of the 
jury, the latter had no alternative but to con- 
demn him. 

Thrice in succession the ignoble human 


t^'KIME AND EXPIATION 167 


vultures who flock from all quarters of the 
city when the taint of blood is in the air had 
passed the night carousing near the Place 
de la Roquette, only to slink back disap- 
pointed to their haunts at daybreak. 

La Petite Irma was of the crowd, impelled 
to the scene of her lover’s expiation by a mor- 
bid curiosity that she could not resist. Hag- 
gard, weary, and agitated, for the fourth, and 
what she instinctively felt would be the last 
time, she set out on her terrible pilgrimage. 

It had been raining since nightfall. A 
cold, penetrating drizzle fell noiselessly out 
of the inky blackness overhead, soaking the 
legs of the rare, belated citizens hastening 
homeward and eclipsing themselves behind 
their umbrellas. 

Dong ! Dong ! The hour of two boomed 
out from some clock-tower as La Petite Irma 
dragged herself across the Place de la Bas- 
tille and turned into the long, uphill Rue de 
la Roquette. 


i68 


AJV ART FAILURE 


As she approached the neighborhood of 
the prison her heart beat violently, and the 
gas-lamps began to whirl. The cafes and- 
wineshops were open, giving a less dreary 
appearance to the streets, and into the first 
establishment she came to she gladly turned. 
It was a wineshop, and she hastily gulped 
down a quantity of the fieriest and most un- 
palatable poison that ever libelled the good 
name of cognac. 

The wineshop, which was filled with a 
queer crowd, reeked of absinthe. “John- 
nies” in evening dress, with crumpled shirt- 
fronts, and very drunk, were exchanging 
inane witticisms with gaudy Venuses of gas- 
lit debauchery; cheek by jowl with the latter 
were other erring women, of a still lower 
plane of degradation, jabbering in filthy 
argot with their “protectors,” beings young 
in years, aged in crime, whose emaciated, 
beardless faces wore an expression of min- 
gled indolence, cunning, and viciousness hor- 


CRIME AND EXPIATION 169 


rible to look upon ; querrulous workmen and 
seedy-looking individuals, who may have 
been tramps, chiffonniers, or detectives. 

The girl was glad to escape again into the 
outer darkness and rain from the insulting 
criticisms of the women and the too pressing 
gallantries of the men. She continued up 
the Rue de la Roquette, past the closed 
shops of the vendors of tombstones and 
funeral wreaths, past more wineshops with 
their noisy clienteles, until she reached the 
prison. The Place de la Roquette was as 
silent as the Cemetery of Pere la Chaise 
that lay just beyond the perspective of gas- 
lamps. 

At length after an interval that seemed an 
age a clock struck three. Almost simul- 
taneously the doors of La Petite Roquette 
opened, and half a hundred policemen in top 
boots and capes formed up along the pave- 
ment against the wall. A few minutes later 
a squadron of mounted Republican Guards 


170 


AN ART FAILURE 


dashed up and the men dismounted and 
stood beside their steaming horses. Then a 
company of foot -guards 
marched up, fell into 
line, and stacked their 
arms. 

By this time the 
crowd had begun to 
gather. Thehalf-hun- 
dred policemen wheel- 
ed into two squads, 
deployed across the 
Place, and drove the 
people back as the doors of La Petite Ro- 
quette again opened, giving egress to more 
policemen with wooden barriers, which they 
placed at each extremity of the Place. Then 
a cart rumbled up, the five marked stones 
were displaced, and the erection of the guil- 
lotine began. 

La Petite Irma, who had been elbowed to 
the rear of the crowd, shuddered as she 



CRIME AND EXPIATION 171 


thought of Antonio calmly sleeping behind 
the frowning wall of La Grande Roquette, all 
unconscious of the nearness of his doom. 

The rain had now stopped, and in the east 
approaching day had illumined the hitherto 
invisible banks of clouds with the faintest 
suspicion of slatey gray, that lightened, 
lightened, imperceptibly, outlining housetops 
and chimney-stacks and disputing supremacy 
with the street-lamps, which blinked paler 
and paler until, for the nonce, they had ac- 
complished their mission and ceased to have 
any raison-d’toe. 

Men, women, and even children were 
there shivering in the raw, chilly air. The 
women looked haggard and bedraggled, and 
the pitiless light of day defined the crow’s 
claws and wrinkles that nor paint nor powder 
could longer dissemble. The ashen faces of 
their exploiters were drawn by the eternal, 
hideous rictus that appears to characterize 
these callous gallants of the Paris gutter, 


172 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


destined, many of them, to play the chief r61e 
one day in the ghastly tragedy they were so 
anxious to witness. 

A couple of flower-girls, abandoned crea- 
tures who haunt nocturnal brasseries and 
other purlieus of vice, were offering faded 
bouquets for sale, and a miserable old man 
was selling petits pains. 

But the horrible crowd waxed impatient. 
A gang of roughs began clapping and stamp- 
ing, and shouting “ Des lampions ! Des 
lampions !” at the top of their voices. 
Others amused themselves by singing. 

Suddenly there was a commotion in front, 
and the crowd subsided into an expectant 
silence. The foot-guards seized their rifles 
and dropped into line; the cavalrymen 
leaped into their saddles and drew their 
swords. Everybody stood on tiptoe and 
strained his neck in an effort to get a 
glimpse of what was about to take place. 
The great doors of La Grande Roquette were 





;'«>•' 













EXPIATION. 



CRIME AND EXPIATION i75 


thrown wide open, and the men in the crowd 
uncovered. 

La Petite Irma, in rear of the spectators, 
was rooted to the spot, rigid with horror, her 
face buried in her hands. Suddenly a sharp 
thud was heard, and with an awful, piercing 
shriek of anguish, she swayed for an instant 
as though about to fall, and then staggered 
down the street. 




CHAPTER XXII 

THE FIAT OF DESTINY 

The little manage in the Rue Scrpente 
had passed the long months of winter in un- 
ruffled felicity. Seeing no one, going no- 
where, they were wrapped up in each other, 
and Burroughs desired nothing else. 

They had read in the papers of the murdei 
of Le Beau Jules, and though each, out of a 
natural feeling of delicacy, refrained from all 
reference to the tragedy, both, and especially 
La Madeleine, experienced a sense of im- 
mense relief that he was out of the way. 
Not that he had in any way annoyed her 
since their meeting in Notre Dame; she had 
not even seen him. But she had lived in 
mortal fear of him. 

Burroughs’ “ Beatrice” was finished and 


12 


177 


178 


AJV ART FAILURE 



carefully covered pending the time, rapidly 
approaching, when the Salon jury would sit 
in judgment upon it. He had also painted 
other pictures which he had taken to Du- 
terque and Hoff- 
meyer’s, where he 
had been received 
with a good deal 
more empresse- 
ment than on the 
occasion of his first 
visit. His pic- 
tures, indeed, had 
been taken without 
hesitation and at 
once hung up in 
the show-rooms. 

The painter was 
enthusiastic and 
confident. At times, such had been the 
change wrought within him during the past 
twelve months, he was even boisterously gay. 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY 179 


La Madeleine, however, began to give way to 
fits of thoughtfulness. By careful manage- 
ment she was making the money go as far as 
it was humanly possible to do; still, the 
cold fact forced itself upon her that their re- 
sources would soon be exhausted. 

Knowing whence the funds came on the 
last occasion, she was by no means confident 
that the pictures now offered for sale would 
be purchased, and in any case she doubted 
whether they would bring in more than 
enough to tide over for a week or two the 
difficulties which she knew they would soon 
have to reckon with. 

Among the recorded truths evolved out of 
the wisdom of the nations is an exasperating 
old saw to the effect that happiness cannot 
be purchased with money, or that wealth is 
not synonymous with a contented mind. 
The logic of this is incontrovertible; still it 
does not detract from the fact that the lack 
of a comfortable sufficiency of the national 


i8o 


AJV ART FAILURE 


currency has a disastrous influence upon the 
even tenor of the way of the immense ma- 
jority of mortals. 

It was a question of interest that led to 
the first “ scene” between La Madeleine and 
her husband. Both had been rendered jubi- 
lant by a note from Duterque and Hoffmeyer’s 
requesting the artist to call upon them 
apropos to an offer that had been made for 
one of his pictures. La Madeleine was es- 
pecially thankful, for although she was post- 
poning the inevitable as long as possible she 
saw that they would come to a standstill 
within a fortnight, and that she would have 
to return to the studios. 

There was no help for it, it would come to 
this in the end, she felt certain; but once, 
when she had discreetly sounded her hus- 
band about it, she saw from the angry flush 
that mounted to his face that it would be no 
easy matter, even if it were possible, to over- 
come his repugnance to this course and ob- 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY l8i 


tain his consent. And yet what else was to 
be done } They could not starve. Even if 
his ** Beatrice” was accepted for the Salon — 
and she had no doubt whatever that it would 
be — it did not follow that the sky would im- 
mediately begin to rain roasted larks upon 
them. 

She understood that he should feel reluc- 
tant to let her go. They had hardly been 
separated for an hour since their marriage. 
Personally she had no desire to resume her 
profession, but apart from the inconvenience 
of .the thing she could conceive of no earthly 
reason why she should not do so. It did not 
strike her that his objection could be in- 
spired by any other sentiment. 

The immediate necessity for her going, 
however, would be averted by the sale of the 
picture, and for this she felt truly thankful. 
The artist seemed to be quite unconscious 
of, or could not understand, their position, 
and she dreaded to have to make it clear to 


AN ART FAILURE 


182 


him. He had already begun to talk about 
taking an atelier. 

Burroughs returned home in a state of high 
dudgeon. Some grasping idiot, he said, who 
wanted to enrich his collection at the ex- 
pense of his (Burroughs’) talent, had offered 
two hundred and fifty francs for the best of 
the pictures. He had haughtily refused. 
The picture dealer had assured him that it was 
the utmost the amateur was prepared to give. 
He had replied that he would rather put his 
foot through the canvas than give it away at 
such a figure, and had walked out of the shop. 

‘‘You did wrong,” remarked La Made- 
leine quietly. “ You should have taken the 
money. We want it.” 

Taken the money ! Did she take him for 
a fool.? Did she think that a man whose 
pictures had fetched thousands of francs was 
going to make himself so cheap as to accept 
a beggarly two hundred and fifty .? 

Two hundred and fifty, even after the 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY 183 


commission had been deducted, was better 
than nothing, she argued, and thought he 
had better go back and clinch the bargain. 

The suggestion incensed the artist more 
than ever, and thoroughly exasperated at his 
osbtinacy La Madeleine exclaimed : 

‘‘You don’t suppose that every time you 
get into trouble that big English poet is go- 
ing to help you out of it !” 

The remark had no sooner left her lips 
than she would have given her life to recall 
it. A startling change came over the artist. 
The angry color had faded from his face, 
leaving it deathly white, and his hands at his 
side were opening and closing nervously. 
His wife’s imprudent outburst had opened 
his eyes : his pictures had not sold at all. 
He owed his year of happiness free from 
care and rosy with hope, not to his own 
talent, but to the exquisite delicacy and gen- 
erosity of his friend, whom he had disgrace- 
fully neglected, not even answering his let- 


184 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


ters ! And his wife knew it and had not 
told him ! 

Oh! it was more than his disillusioned 
pride could bear. Suffocating with mortifi- 
cation, rage, and despair, he threw himself 
upon the bed and rolled there, clutching at 
his hair and biting the pillow in his parox- 
ysm, while the thoroughly frightened Made- 
leine sought in vain to calm him. 

When the violence of the access had spent 
itself, he lay for a space groaning and bit- 
terly reproaching the weeping woman with 
her ‘‘perfidy.” Then he reproached himself 
and entreated her pardon for having bound 
her existence with his own hapless lot. 
Finally he got up and indited a long and 
spiteful letter to Lord Studley, which his 
wife seized the earliest opportunity of throw- 
ing on the fire. 

The epistolatory effort had the effect of 
restoring his calmness somewhat, and La 
Madeleine, who did not comprehend and 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY 185 


therefore had no sympathy with such an ex- 
cess ot sensibility, sought to reason with 
him. She pointed out that there was no oc- 
casion to take the matter so much to heart ; 
that he might regard the money left by his 
friend as a loan, and repay it with interest 
some day. 

This was the only course open to him, and 
he was constrained to derive what comfort 
from it he could, which was* very little. His 
amour propre had received a terrible blow. 
He could not rally from it and for a few 
days was morose and sullen, eating little and 
speaking little, to La Madeleine’s great grief, 
until his mind was occupied by the care of 
sending off his “ Beatrice” to the Palais de 
r Industrie. 

Its departure was a momentous event in 
the little household. Burroughs, La Made- 
leine, and M. and Mme. Durand all helped 
to hamper the men engaged in the no easy 
task of getting the big and carefully boxed 


86 


AN ART FAILURE 


picture round the angles of the staircase. 
Burroughs temporarily recovered his cheer- 
fulness, and poor Madeleine was so thankful 
thereat that she had not the heart to tell him 
until the morrow that the expense of send- 
ing the picture away had swallowed up the 
remainder of her hoard. 

But the subject had at last to be broached. 
La Madeleine endeavored to make light of 
it. It was of no consequence, she said. 
She would go and pose for a few hours a day 
until one of the pictures sold, and this would 
bring them in enough to live in even greater 
comfort than they had been accustomed to 
of late. 

Burroughs, who had listened to her at first 
with a distraught air and a bored expression 
on his face, got up and went to her, his 
heart swelling with love and emotion. 

Dear little Madeleine, brave little wo- 
man,” he said, taking her face between his 
hands and kissing her gravely. “ I will go 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY 187 


down to hell with your blood and mine upon 
my head rather than let you do that !” 

But,” she urged desperately, determined 
to argue the matter out while they were 
about it, “What are we to do?” 

“ Do ? Have patience, my darling,” he 
rejoined, counselling in her a virtue the lack 
of which in himself he was ill able to con- 
ceal. “ It will be all right, you will see, 
when the Salon opens and my ^Beatrice’ 
begins to be talked about. Cannot we hold 
out till then ?” 

La Madeleine shook her head. 

“ No ? Then I shall have to swallow the 
pill and accept the offer for that picture, I 
suppose. Confound it, there is no alterna- 
tive,” he added angrily. 

“And if the picture — the ‘Beatrice/ I 
mean — is rejected?” she persisted. 

“ Rejected !” 

He gazed at her stupidly, passing his hand 
over his forehead. The idea that it could be 


i88 


AN ART FAILURE 


rejected did not appear to have occurred to 
him. 

“That is not possible!” he stammered. 
“ That is not possible 1” 

He took up his hat and went out. La 
Madeleine followed on tiptoe and watched 
him over the banisters as he went down- 
stairs. He was shaking his head and mut- 
tering that the thing was impossible. She 
grew sick with apprehension as she thought 
of the consequences likely to result from a 
refusal of the picture. 

Arrived at Duterque and Hoffmeyer’s a 
fresh disappointment awaited him. It had 
required a supreme effort on his part to over- 
come his humiliation and enter the shop with 
an air of indifference. Indeed he had passed 
the street several times before he could sum- 
mon up sufficient courage to venture into it. 
But he thought of La Madeleine and what 
was expected of him, and that imparted to 
him the strength of desperation. 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY 189 


He was informed that the would-be pur- 
chaser had refused to give more than the 
sum he had offered for the picture, and after 
selecting a number of others had left Paris, 
and his whereabouts was not known. 

There was no help for it. After again 
vainly trying to induce the artist to let her 
return to the studios. La Madeleine was 
compelled to pawn the few jewels she pos- 
sessed in order to keep things going. She 
did not tell her husband about it, and he did 
not notice the disappearance of the trinkets, 
nor did he ask where the money came from 
that supplied their daily meals. His mind 
was occupied with his picture, and he 
seemed to be unconscious of all else. 

He would rise and pace the room restlessly 
hours before the postman made his first round, 
and descended to the concierges’ loge several 
times a day for fully a fortnight before it was 
possible that he could receive the verdict of 
the Salon jury. 


190 


AJ^ AJ^T FAILURE 


As the days went by he grew more anx- 
ious and excited, until the tension on his 
nerves was terrible. At last came an enve- 
lope bearing the well-known stamp of the 
Society des Artists Frangais. With fever- 
ish eagerness he tore it open. 

It was before the split in the artistic camp 
had occurred, and the establishment of a 
rival Salon on the Champ de Mars had fur- 
nished space for the annual display of sev- 
eral hundred more yards of mediocre can- 
vases. The work that devolved upon the 
jury was stupendous, the claims upon them 
embarrassing, the influence brought to bear 
powerful. 

Burroughs’ ‘‘ Beatrice” was rejected. 

La Madeleine watched him in fear and 
trembling as he opened the missive. 

She read the verdict by the hard, hope- 
less expression of his face. But he gave 
way to no violent outburst, as she had ex- 
pected. 


THE FIAT OF DESTINY, 191 


“ It is destiny,” he laughed, handing her 
tne letter and dropping dejectedly into a 
chair. 



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,v 


CHAPTER XIII 


IN THE TRACK OF THE SETTING SUN 

** OuF !” Lord Studley gave a grunt of 
profound satisfaction as he jumped out of the 
train at the Gare Saint Lazare. It was so 
good to be in Paris again ! 

This time he had not come over on a fly- 
ing visit. His purpose was to resume his 
old life in the Quarter and his flirtations 
with the muse, necessarily interrupted by the 
care and responsibility of settling matters 
connected with his estates and putting in 
order the family affairs, which he had found 
somewhat involved. 

Also to escape from the demands upon 
him made by society and by his importunate 
borough, which wanted to send him to Par- 
liament, where it had not been without a 


13 


193 


194 


AJV ART FAILURE 


representative of the House of Studley for 
over a century. His lordship hated politics. 

Besides, he was anxious about Burroughs. 
What had become of his American friend, and 
what was he doing ? he wondered. La Made- 
leine had broken her promise to write, and 
though he had written to the artist himself 
three or four times he had received no reply. 
He knew that Burroughs had recovered, be- 
cause, having communicated with one of the 
medical celebrities he had engaged to attend 
his friend, he had been informed that the 
latter was convalescent and had gone to the 
country to recuperate. 

Wherefore, then, this silence.^ 

He sent his man on to his quarters with 
his luggage, and resolved to stretch his legs 
by walking across the city to the Latin 
Quarter via the Halles Centrales. The busy 
market under the walls of the beautiful old 
church of Saint Eustache had always inter- 
ested him. He had often enough stayed out 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 195 


all night — as a preferable measure to getting 
up early — in order to enjoy the picturesque 
animation that reigns there while the “ Ven- 
tre de Paris” is being supplied. He picked 
his way slowly through the countless vehicles 



of every size and shape that encumbered the 
street in all directions, and crossed the Pont 
Saint Michel. 

The very first person he saw on entering 
the Bouh Mich’ was Duransaur. The De- 


196 


JJ\r ART FAILURE 


cadent was seated outside a cafd, serenely 
sucking the stump of a cigar and letting the 
water trickle into his absinthe from a de- 
canter held high above the glass. He was 
attired in an exceedingly threadbare and 
faded frock-coat, buttoned close up to meet 
a black plastron which, large as it was, ill- 
concealed his dirty shirt-front and served to 
heighten the griminess of his collar. His 
unkempt hair protruded well over his ears 
from beneath a greasy, straight- brimmed 
stovepipe hat. 

He uttered an exclamation of joyful sur- 
prise on catching sight of Sthdley, and ad- 
vanced to meet him with both hands out- 
stretched. With true Gallic effusiveness he 
would have embraced him ; but the poet drew 
the line at being embraced by men. With 
admirable tact he seized one of the French- 
man’s hands in a grip that made him wince, 
at the same time slapping him on the shoul- 
der with such hearty cordiality that he 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 197 


nearly knocked all the breath out of his 
body. 

He then took a chair opposite to him and 
Duransaur made him acquainted with all that 
had transpired in Bohemia during his pro- 
longed absence — how Nini la Blonde had 
become stage-struck and had accepted an 
offer to perform nightly at the Fantaisies- 
Follichonnes ; how Boule de Loto had found 
favor in the eyes of a Russian prince, and 
might be seen every afternoon “faisant de 
Tepate” in the Allee des Acacias, in the 
Bois, where her elaborate display of dia- 
monds had created no end of a sensation; 
how since the execution of Antonio — the 
details of which his lordship had read in the 
papers — La Petite Irma went about in deep 
mourning, and he, Duransaur, was trying to 
persuade her to be consoled : 

“Oh! la, mes amis, quelle veinel 
Elle a vingt ans i peine. 

Consolons cette veuve liF* 


AJV ART FAILURE 


198 


And La Madeleine ?’* 

La Madeleine? She had not been seen 
for months and no one knew what had be- 
come of her. 

Duransaur wound up by giving his com- 
panion to understand that his credit having 
been stretched to the point of rupture in the 
quarter of the New Idea, he had been com- 
pelled to fall back upon the old stamping- 
ground in order to procure, k Foeil, the nectar 
of the “ muse verte,” without whose insidious 
inspiration his mind was a blank and life a 
delusion and a snare — likewise the more solid 
sustenance indispensable to the welfare of his 
mere corporeal being. 

Having paid for the “ consommations,” 
Lord Studley took leave of the Montmartre 
bard, after managing to empty his cigar-case 
on to the table as he offered him a smoke, 
and pressing a louis into his hand as he shook 
it — only as a loan, of course. 

He went on to the Rue Serpente, where 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 199 


he was greeted with obsequious politeness 
by Mme. Durand, who recognized him imme- 
diately. 

She thought M. Burroughs was in, for she 
had not seen him come down, nor Madame 
either. 

Madame ! — Madame who.^” blurted Stud- 
ley, astonished. 

“ Why, Madame Burroughs, Monsieur Bur- 
roughs’ wife.” 

“ Do you mean — V 

“ Yes, La Madeleine. Did you not know 
they were married V' asked the woman, whose 
turn it was to be surprised. 

“No. I have been away from Paris for 
some time ; the letter must have miscarried.” 

“ That reminds me that one has just come 
for him. I was about to go up with it,” she 
remarked insinuatingly as he turned to quit 
the loge. 

“ Give it to me, I will take it,” he said. 

As the woman handed the envelope to him 


200 


AJV ART FAILURE 


he looked at it mechanically. It had a black 
border and bore a United States postage 
stamp. 

Oh ! oh !’' he thought as he went up- 
stairs. “ So he fell in love with her, did he ? 
And married her! Je-os-e-phat 1 Married 
her ! Well, I never imagined that he, of all 
men, would do such a thing. . . . And yet, 
what a fool I am I it is the natural result of 
their being thrown together like that. Hu- 
man nature is human nature, of course. . . . 
And he hasn’t got such a bad bargain after 
all. I would gladly have married her myself. 
She knows that, the little hussy . . . But 
she always laughed at me. . . . She never 
would take me au serieux — or any other way. 
Yet, God knows, I was serious. How aw- 
fully stuck on her I was till she took up 
with that shock-haired idiot who is dead. 
. . . That settled the business. I never 
could conceive of a woman so absolutely lost 
to all sense of the beautiful in man as to 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 20 1 


give herself to hair like that ! . . . And to 

think I paid jQ2yOOO for X ’s picture of 

her ! I’ll have it sent from Studley Hall and 
make them a wedding present of it — I will, 
by Jove !” 

Thus soliloquizing he had reached the top 
landing and was knocking discreetly at the 
door. Receiving no answer, he knocked 
again, and then a third time, louder, but all 
was silent within. He tried the door and 
found it was locked. Then it seemed to him 
that a disagreeable smell came from the 
room. There was no mistaking it : it was 
the pungent odor of charcoal fumes. 

Seized with a horrible apprehension, he 
pounded heavily with both hands, but with 
no better result. This decided him. He ap- 
plied his shoulder and, exerting his strength 
in a great effort, burst in the door. 

A rush of stifling fumes almost choked 
him as he dashed into the room. Two char- 
coal braziers on the floor had nearly burnt 


202 


AN ART FAILURE 


themselves out, and on the bed, hand in 
hand, lay Burroughs and La Madeleine, their 
pallid, upturned faces distorted in the agony 
of death. 

Quick as a flash the poet sprang to the 
window, the apertures of which had been 
carefully filled with strips of linen, and flung 
it wide open. Then lifting the bodies off the 
bed and laying them out on the landing, he 
tore open the clothing round their necks and 
roared for help at the top of his stentorian 
voice. 

In an instant the house was in an uproar. 
Women appeared at their doors and screamed 
with terror. They did not know what was 
the matter, but jumped to the conclusion that 
the house was on fire or that somebody was 
being murdered. M. Durand bounded up the 
stairs revolver in hand, while Mme. Durand 
rushed into the street and yelled Police !” 

They are dead !” shouted the poet when 
the breathless concierge arrived upon the 


liiill’i 




* 


/ 


“EXERTING HIS STRENGTH IN A GREAT EFFORT BURST IN THE DOOR, 






TOWARD THE SUNSET 20$ 


scene. “ Go and fetch as many doctors as 
you can find, and then tell the police. Take 
a cab, anything! A thousand francs if a 
doctor is here within three minutes !” 

M. Durand darted off again, while Studley, 
with great presence of mind, tried to restore 
respiration by the methods usually employed 
in cases of drowning. 

In a few minutes two doctors arrived. 
They were followed by 
others and the district 
commissary with a 
squad of police. The 
latter soon cleared the 
house of the crowd 
that had gathered and 
invaded it. 

The commissary’s 
practised eye at once 
noticed the scraps of a letter that had been 
torn up and thrown in the fireplace. He 
placed the scraps together on the table and 



206 


AJ\r ART FAILURE 


found that it was the card from the Soci^t6 
des Artists Fran^ais. 

“ This, no doubt, is the explanation,” he 
said, turning to the poet. 

He then took possession of the letter that 
had been given to Studley by the concierge. 
This being in English he was unable to read 
it, and requested the poet to translate it to 
him. 

It was from Burroughs’ mother. In a few 
pathetic words she told him that his father 
had been fatally injured in a railway acci- 
dent, but before dying had forgiven his boy, 
as he hoped to be forgiven for his unreason- 
ing harshness. He had drawn up a new will 
which, after making provision for his widow 
and daughter, left everything to his son. 
The letter concluded with a touching appeal 
to the artist to return home without delay. 

Meanwhile the doctors had been employ- 
ing all their science, and after an hour’s hard 
work, one of them, with an exultant excla- 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 207 


mation, announced that Burroughs’ heart was 
beating. Thus encouraged they redoubled 
their efforts, and soon, with a deep sigh, the 
artist opened his eyes. 

La Madeleine’s eyes were also open, but 
they were fixed in the glassy stare of death. 



The great liner ploughed its way majesti- 
cally down the English Channel toward the 
sunset : 

“ Light of pure pallid amber, cheered with fire of gold 

And small rent sprays wherewith the heavens most 
high 

Were strewn as autumn strews the golden close 
With rose leaves.’' 

Upon the promenade deck, wrapped in a 
heavy travelling coat and cape, a man leaned 


2o8 


AN' ART FAILURE 


on the rail and watched the waves capped 
with sheaves of foam, which, thrown off by 
the leviathan, recoiled in mighty undulations, 
scattering myriads of spray diamonds adown 
their bottle-green slopes. His face was wan 
and pinched with suffering, and his brown 
locks were prematurely streaked with gray. 

A tall, powerful-looking man stood beside 
him, his hand resting protectingly upon his 
companion’s shoulder. 

Thus they stood silently till the pale rose- 
shot gold of the sky was barred with purple 
banks of clouds, and the gathering gloom 
veiled the fast receding coast line behind 
them. 

Percy,” murmured the invalid, at length, 
as his thin, bloodless fingers sought and closed 
over the hand of his stalwart friend, “ I can- 
not realize that I have lived during the past 
seven years. I seem to have awakened from 
a horrible nightmare, the impression of 
which I cannot shake off. And like a dream 


TOWARD THE SUNSET 209 


that is past, the details of which one seeks 
in vain to recall, everything appears to me 
indistinct, even her sweet face, though in the 
hush of night I often hear her call to me 
and instinctively stretch out my hands, only 
to clutch the pillow. 

** Ah ! Percy, I have suffered !” 

“ Indeed you have, my poor Charlie,” said 
the poet feelingly. But, see ! the scene of 
your sorrows and illusions is shut out from 
your sight — forever, I hope — and the glory 
of yonder sunset toward which we are speed- 
ing holds out a promise of a new and brighter 
life in your own country, among your own 
people.” 

THE END, 

14 



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NEELY’S PRISMATIC LIBRARY. 




SOAP BUBBLES. Max Nordau. Brilliant, 
fascinating, intensely interesting. 

BIJOU’S COURTSHIPS, “Gyp.” From the 
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NOBLE BLOOD and A WEST POINT PAR- 
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Ernst Von Wildenbruch, of the German 
Army. 

TRUMPETER FRED. Capt. Charles King, 
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THE KING IN YELLOW. By the Author of 
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^ have read many portions several times, 
captivated by the unapproachable tints of 
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Edward Ellis. 

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vivid; the ending is highly dramatic.” 
Boston Times. 

FATHER STAFFORD. Anthony Hopei. 
Author of “ The Prisoner of Zenda.” 

“‘Father Stafford’ is quite the best thing Hope has done 

so far, if I except one or two scenes from the “Dolly 

Dialogues.”— JOHN OLIVER HOBBES. 

AN ART FAILURE. John V/. Harding. A 
story of the Latin Quarter as it is. More 
than fifty illustrations. 

For sale everywhere or sent postpaid on reeeipt 

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sets a pace that others will not easily equal *nd sur- 

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BiJOU’S CciJtiTSHiPS. 

From the French of “Gyp.” 

Translated by Katherine Berry di Zirega^ with 
full-page drawings by S B. AspelL 


Neely’s Prismatic Library, Gilt Top, 75 Cents. 


I’ll say one thing for your “ Gyp “ book — 
’'.hat it repays close reading, every sen- 
tence being a studied bit of effect, and that 
in this respect cne of the latter-day and ar- 
tistic French novels, no matter how light, 
puts to shame our sprawling English ro- 
mances. I haven’t seen the original text, 
but if it is much lighter and brighter than 
this version, it must be perfection indeed. 

Mile. Bijou really took me in at rb*. be- 
ginning. I never saw a character so well 
disguised by the author. Until half way 
through the book I thought, like all her 
satellites and kindred, that she was too good 
and sweet and guileless for this wicked 
world. My final conclusion is that Becky 
SLa'p was a dunce and Forget-me not a 
saint beside this artless little ^end— who 
parts husbands and wives, drowns her 
teacher, kills an actress, breaks up a dozer 
men (and boys) and finally marries an old 
man after herself seeing that his whole 
fortune is settled upon her. She is a crea- 
tion, and if of a little heavier weight would 
live in literature. 

The book ought to make its way on its 
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THE CHILD OF THE BALL. DeAlarcon. 
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WEBSTER’S PRONOUNCING DICTIONARY. 

(Illustrated.) ssopaees. 

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FHwsrfl ^ V5iTi»7ilp 

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WHAT PEOPLE SAID. An Idle Exile.; 

MARK TW’ AIN— His Life and Work. Will M. Clemens. 
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THE GATES OP DAWN. Fergus Hume. 

THE ONE TOO MANY. Mrs. E. Lynn Linton. 

IN THE OLD CHATEAU. Richard Henry Savage. 
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AT MARKET VALUE. Grant Allen. 

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THE MINOR CHORD. A Story of a Prima Donna. 

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CAMPAIGNS OF CURIOSITY. Elizabeth L. Banks. 
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Mrs. T. H. Walworth. 

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Maibelle 

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RATHER STAFFORD 

BY ANTHONY HOPE. 


The Most Remarkable of Mr. Hope’s Storfes. 


Minneapolis “ This story is in the genuine Hope style 
Tribune and for that reason will be widely read.” 

Public Ledger, ” ‘ Father Stafford ” is extremely clever, 
Philadelphia a bold privateer venturing upon the 

high seas.” 

San Francisco “ It is a good story, the strong parts of 
Chronicle which are the conflict between love and 

conscience on the part of a young Anglican priest. The 
charm of the book, however, lies in the briskness of the dia- 
logue, which is as finely finished as any of Hope's novels.” 
Nashville ” ‘Father Stafford’ is a charming story. The 
Banner whole book sustains the reputation that An- 

thony Hope has made, and adds another proof that as a 
portrayer of characters of sharp distinctness and individ- 
uality, he has no superior.” 

Evening ‘‘A writer of great merit. . . . Mr. Hope’s 
Wisconsin work has a quality of straightforwardness 
that recommends it to readers who have grown tired of 
the loaded novel.” 

Phillipsburg ‘‘ This is considered by his critics to be one 

Journal of the strongest, most beautiful and in- 

teresting novels Mr. Hope has ever written. There is not 
a dull line in the entire volume.” 

Amusement ‘‘The dialogue Is bright and worldly, and 
Gazette the other characters do not suffer because 

so prominent is the hero ; they are well drawn, and quite 
out of the ordinary.” 

Vanity, ‘‘A very interesting narrative, and Mr. Hope 
New York tells the story after that fashion which he 
would seem to have made peculiarly his own.” 

Kansas City ‘‘ There is something more than the romance 

Journal of the action to hold the reader’s mind. It 

is one of the author’s best productions.” 

Every Saturday, ‘‘Anthony Hope is a master of dialogue, 
Elgin, 111. and to his art in this particular is due 

the enticing interest which leads the reader on from page 
to page.” 

Hebrew ‘‘The strife between the obligation of a vow of 
Standard celibacy and the promptings of true love are 
vividly portrayed in this little book. ... It contains an 
admirable description of English country life, and is well 
written.” 

Boston Daily ‘‘ It has enough of the charm of the au- 
Globe thor’s thought and style to identify it as 

characteristic, and make it very pleasing.” 

Buckram, Qilt Top. Retail, 75 Cents. 


The King in Yellow 

ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 


a!(a-veai 11 ** Tlie author Is a genius -vrlthout a \ivin(r e€pial« 

Ellis so far as 1 am aware, in his peculiar field. It 

is a masterpiece. ... I have read many portions sev- 
eral times, captivated by the unapproachable tints of the 
painting. None b ^t a genius of the highest order could 
do such work.” 

N. Y. Commercial * The short prose tale should be a syn* 
Advertiser thesis ; it was the art of Edgar Poe, 

it is the art of Mr. Chambers. . . . His is beyond ques- 
tion a glorious heritage. ... I fancy the book will 
create a sensation ; ... in any case it is the most 
notable contribution to literature which has come from an 
American publisher for many years ; and fine as the ac- 
complishment is, ‘ The King in Yellow ’ is large in promise. 
One has a right to expect a great deal from an author of 
this calibre.” 


Times- “The most eccentric little volume of its (little) 
Herald day. ‘The King in Yellow’ is subtly fascinat- 
ing, and compels attention for its style and its wealth of 
strange, imaginative force.” 

New York “Mr. Robert W. Chambers does not have a 
Times system to work up to ; he has no fad, save a 

tendency to write about the marvelous and the impo.ssible; 
painting pictures of romance that have a wild inspiration 
about them. Descriptive powers of no mean quality are 
perceptible in this volume of stories.” 

The N. Y. “Mr. Chambers has a great command of 
World words ; he is a good painter. His situations 

are most delicately touched, and some of his descriptions 
are exquisite. He writes like an artist. He uses colors 
rather than ideas. . . . The best drama in the volume 
means madness. The tenderest fancy is a sad mirage. 
. . . ‘The King in Yellow’ is a very interesting cohot- 
bution to the present fund of materio-mysticism. . . . 
To read Mr. Chambers’ little book is to escape from the ac- 
tual on poetical wings.” 


Minneapolis “They have a mysterious, eerie air about 
Tribune them that, is apt to stimulate the reader^ 

curiosity.” 


Philadelpnia “ Charming, delicate, skillful, vivid.** 
Times 

Philadelphia “ Expected to make a sensation, charmtag, 
Item full of color and delicately tinted.” 

Cleveland “ It is wondrous strong, dramatic, fullr*f color. 

Gazette weird, uncanny, picturesque, and yet a grai 

of exquisite coloring, dreamy, symbolic, exciting.” 

Detroit “ ‘ The King in Yellow ’ compels attaation.** 
Journal 


Denver “Treated in a most fascinating tray I WeivfL 
Ti*«aes mysterious, ]petferfuli”i 

Buckram, QSIt Top. Rotoll, 75 C«al9 


IN THE QUARTER. 

BV ROBERT W. CHAMBERS^ 

Author of “ The King ic Yellow,” 

PRESS NOTICES: 

If«v,.’Tork “It Is a story of life In Paris. . . that nas 
World good descriptions of dramatic scenes.” 

Book Buyer, “ It is a story of a man who tried to reccn* 
New York cile irreconcilable facts. . . Mr. Cham 

bers tells it with a happy choice of words, thus putting ‘ to 
proof the art alien to the artists. . . It is not a book for 
the unsophisticated, yet its morality is high and munis' 
takable. . .” 

Brooklyn Citizen ” Full of romantic incidents. , ,** 

Boston Courier “ Interesting novel of French life. . .* 

Boston ” A story of student life written with dash . *■ 

Traveller and surety of handling. . 

Boston “Well written, bright, vivid; the ending is 
Times highly dramatic.” 

New York “ Charming story of Bohemian life, with its 

Ounday World buoyancy, its romance, and its wild joy of 
youth . . . vi^Jly depicted in this graceful tale by one 
who, like Daudet, know.® his Paris. Some pages are ex* 
quisitely beautiful.” 

Philadelphia “Idyllic— charming. Mr. Chambers’ story 

Bulletin is delicately told.” 

N. Y. Evening “It is a good story in its way. It is good 

Telegram in several ways. There are glimpses of 

the model and of the grisette— all damty enough. The 
most of it might have come from so severe a moralist as 
George Eliot '^r even Bayard Taylor, . 

N .Y . Commercial “ A ^ :;ry vivid and touchingly told story. 

Advertiser Tne tale is interesting because it re* 

fleets with fldelity the life led by certain sets of art 
students. A genuine romance, charmingly told.” 
Congregationalist, “Vivid, realistic. There is much of 
Boston nobility in it. A decided and ex cel- 

lent moral influence. It is charmingly written from cover 
to cover. .” 

Vogue. “ The author is to be congratulated on the liter 
New York ary skill shown in what is reported to be his 
first attempt at novel writing, his characterization being 
especially clever. The author treats his theme with a re- 
Jnement that softens, but does not gloss over, the excesses 
of temptations that beset youths ; and he shows himself 
^ ,3nly observant of everyday life of the Latin Quarter. . 

Cloth, $i.as. Paper, so Cents. 


f-. TKiSiNYSON NEEUY. 

^CW VOBB 


I 

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CAPTAIN CHARLES KING’S 
WORKS. 


Captain King is acknowledged to be with- 
out a peer in his chosen field, which he indus- 
triously cultivates. There has for some years 
been a steadily increasing demand for liis 
army stories, and if it were put to a vote to 
day, as to the most popular American novelist, 
the name of Captain King would undoubtedly 
be found among the leaders. 


“TRUMPETER FRED” 

Cloth, 75c. 

“AN ARMY WIFE,” 

Cloth, $t.25. 

“FORT FRAYNE,” 

Cloth, $1.25 ; Paper, 50c. 

“A GARRISON TANGLE,” 

Cloth, $J.25. 

“NOBLE BLOOD and A WEST 
POINT PARALLEL,” 

Cloth, 75c. 

J^or sa/e by all Booksellers, cr sent on receipt of 
Price by the Publisher, 

F. TENNYSON NEELY, 

il4 Fifth Avenue, New York. 


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and Australasia 


WRITE FOR FUl' SET OF PUBLICATIONS TO 
C. E. E. XTSSHER, McNICOLL, 

Asst. General Passenger Agent, Moni,. j-al Passenger Traffic Manager, Montreal 



Fune is Money 

e-ri*^SAVE: 


BY TAKING THE 



The Overland Limited** 


I Buffet, Library and Smoking Cars to Salt Lake City. 
I Pullman Palacl Sleepers to Denver, Salt Lake, 
^ Butte, Portland and San Francisco. 

I Pullman Dining Cars to Denver, Salt Lake, San Fran- 
I CISCO and Los Angeles. 

I Free Reclining Chair Cars to Denver, Salt Lake and 

1 Portland. 

Pullman Tourist Sleepers to Ogden, Portland, San 
. Francisco and Los Angeles. 


All trains equipped with 

i^IJVTSCH I.IGHX AXU SXEAM HBAT.«« 

Send for a Union Pacific Folder, 

i DICKINSON. E. L. LOMAX, 

General Manager, Gen. Pass. > teket Ag«ai 


OMAHA. NEB. 


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THIS magnificent new hotel stands at the eastern end of the famor.s 
Dufferiii Terrace, commanding delightful views of the St. Lawrence as 
ar as the eye can reach, down past the Isle d’Orlcans, across to Levis and 
.^yond up stream to Sillery, and, to the left, the country along the beautiful 
'a ’ey of the St. Charles River. The grandeur of the- scenery is indescrio- 
ble ; it is matchless in diversity and charming in effect. *No grander site for 
uch a structure could be found on the continent. 


Address : Manager, Chateau Frontenac, Quebec, Can. 


1 



^ Ayer’s 
i Cure- 
book. 

ll_. A story of cures 
1^* told by the cured. 
Sent free. J. C. 
Ayer Co., I^owell, 
Mass. 


I Bottled climate may be the 

coming cough cure,— Colo- 
2 rado climate at so much per ounce. 
^y Kven then it would be simpler to 
fit lungs to climate than climate to 
lungs. That is being done daily. 
Asthma, bronchitis, la grippe, influ- 
enza, are cured at home by Ayer’s 
Cherry Pectoral, for 50 years the stand- 
ard remedy for colds and coughs. 


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